AJLBERT     R.    CARMAN 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


THE 

PENSIONNAIRES 

THE    STORY    OF    AN    AMERICAN 
GIRL  WHO  TOOK  A  VOICE  TO 
EUROPE  AND  FOUND- 
MANY    THINGS 

BY 

ALBERT  R.   CARMAN 


BOSTON 
HERBERT  B.  TURNER  &  CO. 

1903 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
HERBERT  B.  TURNER  &  Co. 


ENTERED  AT  STATIONERS'   HALL 


All  rights  reserved 


PUBLISHED  OCTOBER,  1903 
THIRD  EDITION,  OCTOBER,  1903 


The  Heintzemann  Press,  Boston 


CONTENTS 

I.  An  American  Girl.         .         .         .11 

II.  "  Tin  and  Paint "      .          .          .          .25 

III.  At  Table  d'Hdte        ....       32 

IV.  If  err  Werner  ....       43 

V.  A  "Pension"  Night  ...       49 

VI.  Mr.  Hughes 58 

VII.  The  Lady  from  Maine       ...       71 

VIII.  In  the  Schloss 87 

IX.  "TJie  Itemizing  Others "     .          .          .     101 

X.  The  New  Jessica        .         .         .         .110 

XI.  Lucerne    ......     119 

XII.  New  ^Pensionnaires "...     130 

XIII.  Werner  Moves  ....     141 

XIV.  "Purple  Gods "          ....     151 

XV.  The  Rescue  Party      .         .         .         .162 

XVI.  A  Lady  Burglar        .         .         .         .178 

XVII.  "Had  I  a  Chance?"          .         .         .185 

[5] 


2229044 


CONTENTS 

XVIII. 

Werner  Awakes 

.     197 

XIX. 

A  Latin  Quarter  "Pension  "   . 

.     208 

XX. 

The  Art  Sect 

.     219 

XXI. 

Art  and  Love 

.     229 

XXII. 

FontaineUeau 

.     239 

XXIII. 

"The  Knight" 

.     250 

XXIV. 

In  London     .... 

.     265 

XXV. 

"Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca" 

.     278 

XXVI. 

Another  "Vale"     . 

.     289 

XXVII. 

Love  and  Art 

301 

[6] 


HORS  D'CEUVRE 

THE  Continental  "pension"  is  like  nothing 
Anglo-Saxon.  Leaf  over  its  guest-book  and 
you  find  a  cross-section  of  civilization;  sit  at  its 
table,  and  you  taste  reminiscences  of  a  French 
hotel;  turn  to  conversation  between  the  courses, 
and  you  are  in  the  dining  saloon  of  an  Atlantic 
"liner." 

It  is  a  democracy  with  opinions  about  Botticelli; 
an  aristocracy  in  exile  and  without  leisure;  an  Eu- 
ropean Concert,  free  from  jealousies  and  welcoming 
an  American  invasion  which,  in  turn,  anxiously  re- 
pudiates the  Monroe  doctrine  as  applied  to  tourists. 

Though  an  assemblage  of  strangers,  with  barely 
a  prejudice  in  common,  speaking  one  another's  lan- 
guages so  badly  that  each  must  explain  eventually 
in  his  own  what  he  meant  to  say,  international 
friendships  are  formed  with  the  loaning  of  a  guide- 
book, and  new-comers  are  taken  shopping  on  the 
second  day.  After  four  days  together  at  table 
d'hote,  companionable  people  are  ready  to  plan  a 
month's  tour  with  a  division  of  carriage  hire  and  a 
"pooling"  of  tastes. 

Intolerance — that    besetting    sin    of    the    sure- 

[7] 


HORS   B'CEUVRE 
I  I 

footed — finds  the  air  of  a  "pension"  either  fatal  or 
infuriating.  There  is  no  place  like  it  for  getting 
into  the  shoes  of  impossible  people.  When  the 
"unspeakable  Turk"  sits  next  one  at  table,  and 
speaks  English,  he  is  discovered  to  be  human  and 
likeable,  and  to  have  his  point  of  view.  He  is  not 
a  Puritan  perversely  gone  wrong,  but  the  child  of 
another  world. 

One  deception  the  "pension"  practises.  It 
cheats  the  hasty  into  believing  that  they  have  pen- 
etrated a  native  home.  A  home  it  is,  like  to  no 
other  place  of  public  entertainment.  The  hostess 
and — more  especially — the  host  always  seem  to  be 
people  of  leisure;  and  to  feel  an  entertainer's  duty 
toward  their  guests.  It  may,  after  all,  be  a  native 
home,  you  are  tempted  to  think — yet  that  book- 
case of  English  novels! — Alas! 

It  is  by  no  means  a  hotel;  not  even  a  rural  French 
hotel,  with  Madame  and  her  sewing  in  the  office, 
and  Monsieur  coming  in  smiling  from  under  his 
chef's  cap  to  grow  superlative  over  the  pet  "lions" 
of  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  slim  dark  daughter 
lighting  your  fire  at  night  with  a  coquettish  con- 
sciousness. Madame  is  in  the  drawing-room  with 
you,  Monsieur  welcomes  you  to  his  library,  the 
slim  dark  daughter  can  sing  if  you  really  wish  it. 

It  is  not  "lodgings" — no,  not  by  a  million  times. 
Compared  with  that,  it  is  a  palatial  hotel  with  six 
courses  at  dinner  and  a  foreign  grace  of  service. 

[8] 


HORS   D'CEUVRE 


It  is,  in  short,  not  to  be  stated  in  terms  of  any- 
thing else.  It  is  a  "pension."  And  long  may  its 
mistress  sit  in  her  drawing-room  to  bargain  with  us 
over  the  cost  of  fires!  And  long  may  the  "pen- 
sionnaires"  chatter  across  its  table  of  the  wonders 
of  Europe  and  the  weariness  they  induce. 


[9] 


CHAPTER  I 


An  American  Girl 

JESSICA,  the  unconquerable,  stood  at  the 
window  and  flouted  the  yellow  heat.  Her 
mother  lay  upon  the  sofa  behind  her,  with  a 
loose  insecurity  of  gowning  which  made  one 
fear  to  see  her  sit  up,  and  cooled  her  face 
with  a  wearily  swayed  fan.  Jessica  was 
for  taking  the  tram  to  the  Grosser  Garten  — 
for  they  were  in  cup-like  Dresden  with  a 
Saxon  summer  spilled  into  the  bowl  —  where 
the  air  possibly  stirred  a  little  beneath  the 
trees  and  a  cafe  orchestra  played.  Mrs. 
Murney  would  not  put  on  a  dress  in  the  fur- 
nace of  that  room  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  glacier. 

Jessica  laughed  —  an  achievement  that 
seemed  a  miracle  to  her  mother  —  and  said 
that  she  supposed  she  might  go  alone.  Mrs. 
Murney  looked  a  trifle  anxious  and  stopped 
fanning.  Jessica  moved  across  the  room 
with  the  brisk  hopefulness  of  one  who  sees 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


release  ahead,  and  took  from  its  place  a  wide, 
flapping  hat  of  light  straw  over  which  a 
bunch  of  red  poppies  nodded.  Then  she 
stood  before  the  glass  and  pinned  this  to  her 
massed  hair  of  satin  black,  her  live  hands 
showing  white  against  it.  But  the  full, 
lifted  arms,  shining  through  the  airy  texture 
of  the  white  muslin  sleeves,  suggested 
rather  a  flesh-tinted  vitality;  and  when  she 
turned  and  the  column  of  her  throat  rose 
free  and  cool  from  a  dress  that  hardly 
seemed  finished  at  the  neck,  so  indistinctly 
did  the  lattice-work  of  the  yoke  fray  out  into 
nothingness,  you  saw  that  she  was  dark,  and 
that  her  hands  had  not  been  over  white.  You 
were  reminded,  too,  possibly,  if  you  had  a 
trained  eye,  that  she  was  a  singer,  for  her 
deep,  long  breathing  stirred  the  loose  full- 
ness of  her  dress  at  the  swell  of  the  bosom, 
and  the  red  ribbon  that  marked  the  waist- 
line was  not  close-drawn. 

Her  mother  wiped  away  with  a  damp 
handkerchief  the  moisture  that  the  stopped 
fan  had  let  gather  on  her  brow. 

"Sorry  you  won't  come,"  said  Jessica, 
[12] 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 


stooping  to  kiss  her.     "I'm  sure  you  would 
be  cooler— 

"You  are  always  sure  of  the  good  of  go- 
ing to  places,"  sighed  Mrs.  Murney.  "In 
winter  you  must  go  out  to  keep  warm,  and 
in  summer  you  must  go  out  to  keep  cool." 

Jessica's  face  pleaded  guilty  with  a  con- 
ceding smile;  and,  bending  down  playfully, 
she  took  her  mother's  hand  in  hers  and 
started  the  fan  going  again.  Then  in  a 
second  she  was  straight  and  alert  to  be 
gone. 

"Dinner  at  half -past  six,"  Mrs.  Murney 
reminded  her  from  beneath  the  feathery 
zephyrs  of  the  fanning. 

"Oh,  I  know  the  rules  of  the  'pension,' ' 
cried  Jessica,  moving  toward  the  door. 
r  'Einmal  klingeln  for  a  fzimmermddchen  ; 
'zweimal  klingeln  for  a—  But  with  a 
swift  gentleness  she  had  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her. 

In  the  Garten  it  was  much  cooler.     She 

found  a  bench  in  the  shade  with  an  open 

mead  stretching  away  before  her,  and  at  the 

right  through  the  trees  was  the  cafe  where 

[13] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


an  orchestra  played  softly  at  times,  with 
long  restful  intervals.  She  could  hear  the 
voices  of  the  people  chatting  over  their 
tables,  but  distant  and  indistinct  like  voices 
in  a  dream.  The  deep  green  of  the  wood 
breathed  upon  her  revivingly,  and  the  book 
she  had  brought  lay  unopened  on  her  lap. 
Occasionally  people  passed  along  the  path; 
now  a  nurse  in  fresh  Saxon  costume  with  a 
hot,  over-dressed,  protesting  baby  in  her 
arms;  now  a  wide  perspiring  German, 
with  his  still  wider  wife  and  full-cheeked 
little  girl,  seeking  the  haven  of  the  cafe; 
now  a  couple  of  trim  German  officers,  erect, 
tight-tunicked,  brisk,  looking  as  if  they 
were  heat-proof;  and  now  two  happy  lovers, 
frankly  hand  in  hand.  But,  for  the  most 
part,  the  path  wound  out  of  sight,  empty 
and  silent. 

Presently,  however,  there  came  into  view 
slowly,  but  unconquered,  that  man  who 
among  mortals  is  most  calmly  superior  to 
his  environments — a  young  English  gentle- 
man. He  was  in  white  flannels  and  canvas 
shoes,  his  trouser-legs  turned  up  as  if  to 
[14] 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 


flaunt  in  the  face  of  this  blinding  sun  the 
existence  of  a  land  where  the  vapors  of 
earth  banish  it  at  will.  He  was  hatless,  his 
"straw"  hanging  down  his  back  by  a  cord, 
and  his  hands  were  in  his  coat-pockets.  He 
came  nearer;  a  smile  relieved  the  reposeful 
firmness  of  his  face — it  was  Mr.  Hughes,  her 
mother's  vis-a-vis  at  the  "pension"  table. 

"How  plucky  of  you!"  he  said.  "I 
thought  that  this  tiresome  heat  would  have 
kept  everybody  indoors." 

"It  is  cooler  here  than  at  the  house,"  she 
explained. 

"Of  course;  but  to  get  here" — and  the 
weather  being  so  well  worth  talking  about, 
they  gave  it  considerable  attention. 

But  presently  her  picturesquely  superla- 
tive condemnation  of  the  heat  awakened  in 
him  a  latent  instinct  to  defend  his  Europe 
against  this  daughter  of  another  continent, 
and  he  mentioned  that  it  was  sometimes  hot 
in  New  York,  if  he  had  not  been  misled. 

"Yes,  heat  kills  people  in  New  York," 
she  admitted  promptly,  "but  they  die  happy, 
with  ice  on  their  lips — real  ice,"  and  she 
[15] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


looked  at  him  enquiringly  to  see  if  he  knew 
what  she  meant,  for  the  European  has  not 
learned  that  ice  is  "man's  best  friend"  when 
the  dog-days  relieve  the  dog  of  that  role. 

"I  see,"  he  said;  "the  best  a  New  Yorker 
asks  for  a  death-bed  promise  is  plenty  of 
ice,"  and  he  twinkled  merrily  upon  her.  She 
laughed  her  appreciation  of  his  retort — a 
curious,  rising  clear-toned  laugh;  and  then 
said— 

'  'Never  touched  me' — I'm  not  really  a 
New  Yorker.  But  that's  slang,  and  you 
won't  understand  it." 

He  looked  as  if  he  were  trying  to  look  a 
little  puzzled  and  there  was  a  conscious 
tolerance  on  his  face.  Slang  in  the  abstract 
was  "bad  form,"  and  no  English  gentleman 
could  be  guilty  of  it ;  but  he  had  lived  enough 
abroad  to  tolerate  in  others  what  he  would 
condemn  in  his  own  people.  Only,  unhap- 
pily, his  face  showed  it  when  he  was  in  the 
act  of  tolerating. 

"Now,  I'll  explain,"  said  Jessica,  settling 
her  round-chinned  face  into  a  superficial  so- 
[16] 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 


briety  beneath  which  merriment  visibly 
struggled. 

"Oh,  don't  bother,"  he  interjected.  "I 
dare  say  I  know  what  you  meant." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  she  laughed,  the  mer- 
riment breaking  frankly  through.  "You 
English  people  cannot  possibly  comprehend 
slang  officially,  as  it  were;  but  you  know 
what  it  means." 

"Well,  we  do  not  encourage  the  use  of 
slang,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  seriousness. 
"Perhaps  it  is  because  it  is  our  language 
that  it  defaces.  You  Americans" — and  he 
regarded  her  with  a  quizzical  smile — "are 
only  using  a  borrowed  language,  you  know." 

"A  borrowed  language!"  she  cried  in  sur- 
prise. And  then  after  a  moment's  thought, 
while  he  still  smiled  on  her  in  silence — 
"P'raps  you're  right.  But  you'll  have  to 
admit  that  we've  oiled  it  up  a  good  lot."  And 
they  both  laughed  together,  she  in  challenge 
and  he  in  unconvinced  abandonment  of  the 
contest. 

"You're  not  from  New  York  then,"  he 
asked;  and  therewith  put  a  question  which 

[17] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


the  Murneys  had  not  yet  quite  decided  how 
to  answer,  though  on  this  occasion  Jessica 
had  thoughtlessly  invited  it  by  her  joking 
disclaimer. 

"Well,  we  are  now,"  she  said  slowly,  and 
then  added,  "but  we  used  to  live  in  the  White 
Mountains." 

"Why  ever  did  you  leave  them?"  he  asked, 
with  an  Englishman's  unconquerable  pre- 
ference for  the  country  over  the  town. 

"Slow,"  she  said,  mournfully,  looking 
moodily  at  the  yellow-hazed  mead  before 
them,  vibrant  with  heat.  "And  then  there 
was  my  singing." 

"Ah  lyes." 

"But  life  in  the  mountains  has  its  silver 
lining,"  she  went  on;  and  with  the  furnace 
heat  of  that  stifling  day  in  their  lungs,  she 
told  him  of  the  broad  veranda  of  her  high- 
perched  home,  of  their  leisurely  life  and  de- 
licious devices  for  the  fighting  of  summer, 
and  then  of  her  autumn  rides  through  flame- 
tinted  forests.  It  all  seemed  so  much  better 
to  her  in  distant,  foreign  Dresden,  than  it 
had  when  its  wide  peace  was  a  prison,  and 
[18] 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 


its  vast  quiet  a  soul-corroding  dullness.  But 
she  would  not  have  gone  back  to  it,  leaving 
the  tide  of  life  for  one  of  its  quietest  eddies, 
on  any  terms.  As  for  Hughes,  he  found 
listening  to  the  effortless,  flowing  speech  of 
New  England  more  pleasing  than  he  would 
have  said,  though  he  was  not  attracted  by 
the  iced  drinks,  nor  gave  his  sanction  to 
much  of  the  zig-zag  English.  Still,  he  was 
very  conscious,  at  all  events,  of  the  rose  that 
showed  on  her  dark,  full  cheek,  as  the  light 
of  recollection  played  behind  her  eyes — it 
quickened  his  pulses,  for  some  reason,  as 
rose  on  a  fair  cheek  never  could  have  done. 
And  the  cool  column  of  her  throat — that 
drew  his  eyes  so  often  that  he  set  himself 
to  keep  them  away  from  it.  Staring  at  some 
one  not  a  stranger  to  you  was  far  from  the 
correct  thing. 

Then  Hughes  talked  of  his  England — 
not  London,  with  its  hurry  and  roar  and 
soot-sowing  air — but  the  soft,  lush  loveliness 
of  rural  England,  where  the  waving  land- 
scape is  full  of  wide  fields,  golden  and  green, 
marked  off  by  the  dark,  rich  lines  of  the  fat 
[19] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


hedges ;  and  great  trees  march  along  mighty 
avenues  or  scatter  themselves  as  comfortable 
giants  might  over  a  deer-dotted  park,  mass- 
ing on  the  sky-line  like  a  forest.  But  he 
spoke  of  it  all  without  enthusiasm — though 
his  eyes  glistened  at  times.  The  village 
churches,  he  thought,  were  "rather  fine,"  and 
it  was  "good  fun  punting  on  the  Thames," 
and  she  should  see  some  of  the  great  houses 
when  they  were  open  and  go  to  service  in  a 
cathedral.  She  knew  by  looking  at  him 
that  he  deemed  England  but  very  little  lower 
than  the  home  of  the  angels,  yet  that  he 
would  never  say  so  unless  someone  said  the 
contrary.  English  people  abroad  praise 
England  chiefly  by  the  indirect  method  of 
criticising  other  countries.  This  makes 
them  popular  with  the  natives. 

"We  have  seen  very  little  of  England," 
said  Jessica,  "but  we  must  before  we  go 
back." 

"Yes,"  said  Hughes  simply,  "I  fancy  you 
would  like  it." 

She  looked  at  him  in  half -doubt  for  a 
moment  as  he  sat  a-gaze  at  nothing,  his 
[20] 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 


sharply  outlined  clean-cut  jaw  seeming  as 
if  it  were  set  in  firmness,  though  it  had 
plainly  only  the  position  of  habitual  repose. 
"We  Americans,"  she  began,  "dote  on  Eng- 
land." Her  face  was  the  face  of  a  girl  who 
doted  on  things.  "We  read  so  much  of  it, 
you  know — Dickens  and — and  that.  Why 
do  English  people  dislike  Us  so?" 

"Why — why!"  ejaculated  the  astonished 
Hughes,  turning  toward  her.  "Why — we 
don't,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do,"  she  insisted,  with  the 
desperate  emphasis  of  one  irretrievably  em- 
barked on  a  venturous,  contention.  "I  know 
it  myself,  and  I've  heard  hundreds  of  Amer- 
icans say  so." 

"Well,  do  you  like  us?"  asked  Hughes, 
unexpectedly,  twinkling  at  her. 

"Not — not  always,"  she  admitted,  with 
that  rising  laugh  of  hers. 

"Not  often  would  be  nearer  the  truth, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"Well,  I  must  say  that  you  don't  usually 
try  to  make  us  like  you,"  she  blurted  out  in 
blunt  defence.  There  was  much  red  on  the 
[21] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


dark  cheek  now,  and  the  eyes  were  on  the 
quivering  mead,  quivering  with  it.  Hughes, 
being  thus  unwatched,  found  it  easy  to  look 
at  her,  and  so  pleasant,  as  she  sat  there,  her 
quick-breathing  form  radiating  a  sensible 
femininity  through  her  muslin  dress,  that  he 
quite  forgot  for  the  moment  that  politeness, 
if  nothing  else,  demanded  a  reply  from  him 
to  that  last  statement.  But  she  did  not  for- 
get, and  presently  she  looked  up  resent- 
fully- 

"Americans,"  she  said,  "don't  worry 
about  it,  you  know;  they  just  wonder  at  it." 

"Oh,  but,"  he  exclaimed,  coming  to  a 
sense  of  his  omission,  "that  is  not  true  of  all 
English  people — not  of  many  English 
people.  Now  I  like  Americans  very  much. 
And  then  I  thought  it  was  they  who  univer- 
sally disliked  us." 

"Now,  honest,"  she  said,  holding  her  fin- 
ger Up  at  him,  "don't  you  think  we're 
queer?" 

"No!  no!"  he  protested  sturdily,  if  not 
altogether  without  mendacity.  "Of  course," 
he  went  on,  "we  are  not  exactly  alike — we 
[22] 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 


each  have  our  notions  and  peculiarities.  But 
— look  here,  Miss  Murney,"  he  suddenly 
broke  in  on  his  own  laboured  explanation, 
"we  do  criticise  each  other  pretty  freely,  but 
you  are  the  only  people  in  the  world  we'd 
fight  for  on  sentimental  grounds,  and  I  be- 
lieve that  if  we  were  hard  put  to  it  you'd 
fight  for  us." 

After  a  time  the  lengthening  shadows 
warned  Jessica  that  she  must  go  back,  and 
they  agreed  to  walk  together  through  the 
Garten,  past  the  tennis  courts,  and  so  down 
the  wide  Biirgerwiese  to  their  part  of  the 
city.  And  very  delightful  it  was  now,  with 
the  first  cooler  breath  of  evening  on  the  air, 
and  the  broadening  belts  of  shade  every- 
where blotting  out  the  yellow  empire  of  the 
sun. 

Straight,  easy,  athletic,  paced  the  young 
Englishman  with  firm-set  jaw  and  eyes 
that  could  laugh  when  the  face  did  not.  And 
light  and  borne  up  on  a  high  tide  of  vitality 
walked  Jessica,  saying  but  little  as  they 
passed  under  the  trees  and  by  the  much  be- 
[23] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


shovelled  sand-heaps  provided  by  the  muni- 
cipality for  the  play  of  the  children — yet 
seeming  to  Hughes  by  the  very  force  of  her 
personality  to  be  tweaking  at  the  cloak  of  his 
companionship  every  moment.  Jessica  long 
remembered  the  care-free  elation  of  spirit 
that  danced  within  her  during  this  walk 
down  the  Biirgerwiese.  She  had  been  rather 
lonely  in  Dresden,  having  all  a  vividly  live 
girl's  love  of  good  company,  male  pre- 
ferred; and  Mr.  Hughes  seemed  to  fit  her 
not  too  exacting  need  with  some  satisfaction. 
Then  on  the  morrow  came  Herr  Vogt's 
amazing  revelation. 


[24] 


CHAPTER  II 


"Tin  and  Paint" 

MRS.  MURNEY  and  Jessica  had  not  been 
long  in  Dresden,  but  they  did  not  conceal 
the  fact  that  they  had  been  quite  a  time  in 
New  York,  where  Jessica  had  taken  voice 
training.  Some  vague  place  in  the  White 
Mountains  had  been  their  home  before  that, 
and  it  was  discernible,  in  a  long  conversa- 
tion, that  they  feared  it  might  be  again.  But 
in  the  meantime — in  a  tentative  way — they 
called  New  York  "home." 

Dresden  had  drawn  them  because  there 
the  renowned  vocal  teacher,  Herr  Vogt, 
lived,  and  they  had  come  in  fear  and  trem- 
bling lest  the  great  master  should  find  that 
Jessica's  laborious  and  costly  New  York 
training  had  merely  wasted  her  time  and 
damaged  her  voice.  Many  a  girl  had  had 
such  an  experience — if  the  dictum  of  Eu- 
rope is  to  be  accepted.  But  from  the  first 

[25] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


Herr  Vogt  was  delighted  with  her  voice.  He 
had  nothing  to  change — nothing  to  recon- 
struct ;  he  had  only  to  go  on  building.  And 
it  was  a  marvellous  voice.  ]\Tot  a  light,  friv- 
olous jingle  of  bells  such  as  might  dance  to 
the  castanets  of  comic  opera ;  not  even  a  rain 
of  starry  sweetness,  which  so  calls  out  and 
dazzles  the  very  soul  of  one  and  then  wings 
back  to  the  stars  without  ever  having  so 
much  as  seen  its  worshipper  on  his  knees; 
but  a  rich,  pure,  measureless  outpouring,  as 
human  as  a  cry,  as  full  as  an  organ,  as  high 
as  the  lark  at  morning. 

But  Herr  Vogt  was  not  satisfied.  When 
he  sat  at  the  piano  it  followed  his  nervous 
touch  up  and  up  and  down  and  down — it 
filled  every  note,  with  the  ease  of  a  voice  that 
was  always  at  flood  and  never  ran  thin — it 
sang  with  the  precision  of  the  thoroughly 
trained.  But  "it" — the  voice — did  all  this. 
Jessica  stood,  full-faced  and  at  peace,  emo- 
tionless beside  it,  an  unmoved  spectator. 

He  rumpled  his  hair  and  looked  at  her. 

"Didn't  I  get  that  right?"  she  would  ask 
genially. 

[26] 


"TiN  AND  PAINT" 


"Yes,  yes,  Miss.  Mein  Gott,  yes!"  he 
would  ejaculate,  and  then  he  would  look  at 
her  harder  than  ever. 

Crimson  would  creep  into  Jessica's  face, 
a  crimson  that  was  not  dissociated  from  tem- 
per, and  she  would  ask  herself  with  a  little 
start  of  alarm  if  the  rumply-haired,  big- 
eyed  German  was  not  a  trifle  "wheely"  in  his 
upper  story. 

"Ach!"  he  would  cry,  turning  to  the  piano 
with  impatient  fingers  that  banged  out  his 
perplexity  on  the  white  keys — keys  that,  like 
Jessica,  were  smooth  and  cold,  but,  like  her, 
loosed  the  voice  of  music  at  his  command. 

The  morning  after  Jessica's  venture  to 
the  Grosser  Garten,  his  bursting  perplexity 
shattered  his  politeness — not  a  very  difficult 
matter,  though  his  kindness  was  indestructi- 
ble— and  he  blurted  out  his  wonder. 

"I  understand  you  not,"  he  said  in  de- 
spair. "Vy  are  you  alvays — zo — zo — "  and 
he  paused. 

"So  what?"  demanded  Jessica,  about 
equally  alarmed  and  indignant,  for  this  was 
[27] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


the  putting  into  words  of  that  incomprehen- 
sible stare  which  had  disturbed  her  so  long. 

He  shook  his  head  until  his  hair  floated 
loose.  "Ach!  how  can  I  tell  it?"  Then 
turning  to  her  with  an  effort  at  calm  serious- 
ness— 

"You  haf  one  heafenly  voice.  But  haf 
you?  Is  it  yours?  It  zings  efery  note  in 
the  zong — beauti-ful!  But  you — zing  not 
one." 

Jessica  flushed  and  Mrs.  Murney 
stood  up. 

"You  will  not  me  understand,"  he  wailed, 
and  he  trotted  back  and  forth  across  the 
room.  "Vy  did  I  spoke?" 

"I  certainly  do  not  know,  Herr  Vogt," 
said  Jessica;  and  her  voice  shook. 

"Veil,  it  is  this  vise,"  he  said,  sawing  the 
words  off  with  a  vibrant  arm.  "Your  voice 
— is  veil  trained.  But  you — you  do  not  the 
music  feel — you  do  not  lif  her.  You  stand 
there  and  zing  as  if  you  vas  a  heafenly 
phonograph — I  t'ink  that  is  him — just  tin 
and  paint — just  tin  and  paint." 
[28] 


TIN  AND  PAINT: 


"Why,  Herr  Vogt!"  interjected  the 
dumbfounded  Jessica,  storm  in  her  eyes. 

The  protruding  eyes  of  the  German  lan- 
guished on  her  with  sympathy,  and  he  was 
miserably  silent.  Why  had  he  ever  been 
otherwise? 

"You  think  I  don't  control  my  own 
voice?"  she  asked;  and  her  tones  indicated 
that  breathing  was  a  difficult  operation. 

He  threw  up  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of 
despair.  "If  you  had  me  understood,"  he 
said  sadly,  "then  you  needed  not  me  to  spoke 
at  all."  Then  he  went  on,  as  if  in  comfort— 
"But  your  voice! — it  is  the  cry  of  a  poetic 
soul  you  somevere  in  you  haf.  Be  prout 
of  that." 

A  close  look  would  have  shown  tears  just 
under  the  dark  lashes  of  the  girl;  for  the 
dictum  of  Herr  Vogt  was  the  word  of  au- 
thority, and  not  to  be  put  aside  with  a  pout. 
If  he  had  said  her  voice  needed  training — 
that  was  to  be  expected — but  this!  Her 
voice  sang,  but  she  did  not.  There  was  "a 
poetic  soul"  within  her,  but  it  was  not  her 
soul.  It  gave  her  a  weird  feeling;  and  all 
[29] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


the  time  the  great  man  glared  at  her  out  of 
his  bulging  eyes  as  if  she  were  a  "freak"  of 
some  sort  and  he  had  paid  his  "mark"  to 
see  her.  She  put  an  ineffective  question  or 
two  in  an  effort  to  pierce  his  meaning,  but 
they  seemed  to  fly  wide  of  the  elusive  target. 

"I  know  I'm  nervous  and  frightened  with 
you — "  she  began  once,  by  way  of  explan- 
ation, but  he  stopped  her  with— 

"Ah!  the  stand-stock-still  person  is  ner- 
vous; but  the  sing4ike-an-angel  person, 
never-r!  She  know  that  she  is  the  equal  of 
the  highest  hof-dame." 

So  Jessica  went  back  to  the  "pension" 
\vith  this  astounding  notion  whirling  in  her 
mind.  What  could  Herr  Vogt  mean? 
Think  as  she  would,  she  could  not  get  a 
tangible  hold  on  it.  It  was  not  that  she 
could  not  sing  when  she  wanted  to ;  that  was 
too  absurd.  It  seemed  to  be,  indeed,  that 
she  sang  very  well,  but  did  not  act  her  songs. 
Possibly  it  was  facial  expression  that  she 
lacked;  but,  if  so,  why  had  not  Herr  Vogt 
said  just  that?  Then  she  remembered  that 
she  often  attained  more  expression  when 
[30] 


"TiN  AND  PAINT' 


singing  in  public;  and  she  regretted  that 
she  had  not  told  Herr  Vogt  this.  That 
might  have  satisfied  him. 

Another  memory  came  linked  to  this. 
Sometimes  when  singing  before  a  large  and 
sympathetic  audience,  she  seemed  to  lose 
herself — her  usually  keen  consciousness  be- 
came blurred — the  audience  and  the  occasion 
faded  and  she  lived  only  in  the  song.  This 
she  had  always  put  down  to  excitement ;  but 
now  she  recalled,  with  a  queer  catch  at  her 
heart,  that  at  such  moments  she  did  seem  to 
"lif  her  music,"  as  Herr  Vogt  would  say, 
in  a  way  entirely  new  to  her.  Was  this  "the 
poetic  soul"  that  Herr  Vogt  fancied  she 
had  within  her? 


[31] 


CHAPTER    III 

t 
At  Table  d'Hote 

"PENSION"  LUTTICHAU  was  not  properly 
a  German  "pension,"  for  dinner  was  at 
night  and  not  at  mid-day;  but  on  the  other 
hand  there  was  cooked  fruit,  and  not  salad, 
with  the  joint.  The  late  dinner  was  a  con- 
cession to  the  touch-and-go  tourist  who 
did  not  like  the  drowsy  effect  of  a  heavy 
meal  at  high  noon;  but  the  lower  pressure 
traveller,  to  whom  German  opera  at  a  few 
"marks"  was  a  sought- for  temptation,  could 
have  a  supper  at  five  which  enabled  him  to 
be  in  his  seat  for  the  rise  of  the  curtain  at 
half-past  six.  The  German  goes  to  the 
opera  when  an  Englishman  goes  to  his  din- 
ner; and  both  alike  growl  at  interrupters. 

Luncheon  on  this  particular  day  had  be- 
gun with  a  stew  of  some  sort,  and  a  mono- 
logue on  old  crockery  by  the  lady  from 
Maine,  who  had  discovered  that  early  cups 
[32] 


AT  TABLE  D'HOTE 


were  handleless  and  was  inordinately  proud 
of  the  knowledge.  But  now  a  dear  old 
Irish  lady,  with  white  hair  and  a  white  lace 
cap  with  a  large  pale-green  bow  in  front, 
was  saying  in  answer  to  a  question  that  she 
belonged  to  "that  tabooed  race,  the  Irish," 
and  proceeded  to  tell  of  an  experience  many 
years  old  in  the  London  "under-ground," 
when  an  English  lady  was  afraid  to  talk  to 
her  lest  she  should  bring  out  some  dyna- 
mite then  and  there  with  deadly  results. 
She  lifted  her  wrinkled  hands  with  an  ad- 
mirable imitation  of  a  tremor  as  she  repeated 
the  English  lady's  —  "Y-you  go  first, 
please!"  when  they  were  leaving  the  train. 

"You  have  been  at  Delft?"  Herr  Werner, 
an  erect  German  whose  whole  head — face, 
hair,  poise — suggested  light,  now  asked  of 
the  lady  from  Maine,  reverting  to  her  crock- 
ery "hobby." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "I  have  stayed  there, 
and  I  have  taken  a  good  deal  of  Delft  ware 
home.  A  man  in  the  museum  at  Amster- 
dam told  me — " 

"Where  did  you  stay    in    Amsterdam?" 

[33] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


broke  in  a  nervous  middle-aged  woman  who 
was  over  with  her  married  daughter,  and 
seemed  to  think  that  the  chief  end  of  Euro- 
pean travel  was  to  get  safely  from  one 
"pension"  to  another. 

"Well,"  replied  the  lady  from  Maine,  "we 
have  stayed  at  several  places  there — 

"Give  me  one  good  'pension' — that  will 
oblige  us  very  much,"  said  her  questioner. 

"We  generally  stay  at  a  hotel,"  went  on 
the  Maine  lady,  largely,  "but  this  last  trip 
we  have  tried  some  'pensions,'  and  we  like 
them  very  well — very  well,  indeed." 

Frau  Liittichau,  sitting  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  looked  up  at  this  with  an  expression 
that  would  have  spelled  impatience  on  any 
face  but  that  of  the  racially  patient. 

"I  knew  a  man  once,"  volunteered  a 
Scotch  gentleman,  with  a  merry  twinkle 
about  the  eyes,  "who,  when  asked  where  to 
stay  in  Amsterdam,  always  said,  'Any  Dam 
hotel,'  which  greatly  shocked — " 

"Malcolm,  why  will  you  repeat  that  sto- 
ry?" broke  in  his  wife  with  a  feeble  smile. 
[34] 


AT  TABLE  D'HOTE 


"There,  my  dear!"  he  exclaimed  tragi- 
cally, "y°u  cut  off  the  poor  man's  apology." 

"Your  friend's  remark  reminds  me  of 
the  bad  hotels  in  Germany  you  see  adver- 
tised everywhere,"  contributed  the  Maine 
lady's  husband. 

Herr  Werner  turned  impatiently  toward 
him.  "Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  'bad' 
means  bath?" 

"Does  it?"  asked  the  American  with  as 
innocent  an  expression  of  countenance  as  a 
twitching  pair  of  eyelids  would  permit.  "I 
always  thought  it  was  a  piece  of  your  boast- 
ed German  honesty." 

American  foolery  was  not  included  in 
Herr  Werner's  philosophic  chart  of  life,  so 
he  met  the  explanation  with  a  look  of  open 
disgust,  and  mentally  recorded  another  case 
tending  to  show  the  ignorant  superficiality 
of  tourists. 

"That's  the  explanation  of  Malcolm's 
joke,"  now  said  Malcolm's  wife,  seizing  the 
opportunity.  "The  Dam  is  the  great 
square  in  Amsterdam,  and  many  good  ho- 
ieis 

[35] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"That  was  hardly  necessary,"  interrupted 
Malcolm  sharply;  "everybody  knows  that." 

"Everybody  hasn't  been  to  Amsterdam," 
said  his  wife,  with  the  manner  of  submitting 
meekly  to  his  rebuke — a  manner  quite  con- 
tradictory to  the  matter  of  her  remark. 

"The  two  things  that  Amster darners  are 
most  proud  of,"  said  Mr.  Hughes,  "is  that 
they  have  the  biggest  drink  and  the  biggest 
place  to  drink  it  in  in  the  world." 

"Did  ye  never  see  the  devil's  punch-bowl 
in  Ireland?"  asked  the  old  Irish  lady,  with 
a  patriotic  glow. 

"But  that  was  for  the  devil's  use,"  expos- 
tulated Hughes,  "and  no  Irishman  ever  got 
a  taste  of  it — unless,"  he  added  as  an  after- 
thought— "y°u  claim  his  Satanic  Majesty 
as  a  fellow  countryman." 

The  old  blue  eyes  looked  up  a-glint  with 
mischief.  "Arrah!"  she  said,  "Irishmen  are 
quite  used  to  have  foreigners  drain  not  only 
their  punch-bowls,  but  their  country,  dry." 

"You  mean  that  bar  in  Amsterdam,"  ask- 
ed the  lady  from  Maine,  turning  to  Hughes, 
"where  they  fill  your  glass  so  full  you  have 
[36] 


AT  TABLE  D'HOTE 


to  stoop  down  and  drink  a  little  before  you 
can  lift  it  without  spilling?" 

"Yes;  and  the  great  Krasnapolsky  cafe." 

"I've  been  to  them  both,"  announced  the 
lady  from  Maine,  with  airy  satisfaction. 
"Many  go  to  Amsterdam,  and  don't,"  she 
went  on.  "It's  my  mission  in  life  to  hunt 
up  and  show  people  characteristic  sights. 
Now,  there's  the  Meissen  factory  near  here. 
How  many—  But  conversation  broke  out 
all  along  the  table  at  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
pitched  at  the  familiar  monologue  key. 

Mrs.  Murney  and  Jessica  sat  about  half- 
way down  the  left  side  of  the  table,  and 
opposite  them  were  Mr.  Hughes  and  Herr 
Werner,  the  erect  German. 

"Did  you  go  to  the  lesson  this  morning?" 
Herr  Werner  now  asked  Jessica. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "I  never  miss  that." 

"Ah!  of  course,"  said  Herr  Werner.  "It 
must  be  a  great  pleasure  to  you." 

"It's  hard  work,"  laughed  Jessica;  "and 
that's  right." 

Herr  Werner  turned  to  his  plate.  This 
American  girl  had  puzzled  him  from  the 

[37] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


first,  and  now  he  had  about  given  over  all 
effort  to  solve  the  problem.  When  she  sang, 
she  drew  the  inner  soul  out  of  him,  and  he 
— a  true  son  of  German  romanticism — felt 
that  he  could  die  for  very  love  of  her.  But 
when  she  talked,  every  sentence  seemed  a 
sacrilege — a  desecrating  blow  at  the  ideal 
of  her  he  had  formed.  How  such  a  girl 
could  sing  with  such  a  voice — that  was  the 
maddening  perplexity.  For  a  time  he  was 
spasmodically  in  love  with  her  when  she 
sang,  and  full  of  antipathy  for  her  when 
she  didn't ;  but  now  he  felt  that  he  had  about 
cured  the  spasms. 

"Jessica  had  an  unpleasant  experience 
this  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Murney,  "which 
may  send  Us  to  another  music  teacher." 

"May  we  be  told  of  it,  Miss  Murney?" 
asked  Mr.  Hughes;  and  Jessica,  glad  to  get 
another  sane  mind  on  the  affair,  gave  a  dry- 
humored  account  of  Herr  Vogt's  outbreak. 

"Those  musical  chaps  get  'daffy'  some- 
times," was  Mr.  Hughes's  comment. 

Herr  Werner  had   watched   her  as   she 
talked  with  intense  interest.  It  seemed  then, 
[38] 


AT  TABLE  D'HOTE 


he  said  to  himself,  that  he  had  been  right 
in  deeming  the  casket  unfitted  to  the  jewel. 

"You  must  not  think  that  all  foolishness, 
Miss  Murney,"  he  now  said  gravely.  "Your 
voice  has  always  told  me  of  something  I  did 
not  see  in  you." 

Jessica,  as  might  be  guessed,  had  a  temper 
of  her  own;  and  it  flamed  out  at  this.  The 
great  Herr  Vogt  was  to  be  endured,  but 
hardly  every  German  who  went  "batty." 
So  she  turned  to  Mr.  Hughes  with — 

"My  voice,  it  seems,  is  getting  many  com- 
pliments at  my  expense." 

Hughes  nodded.  He  had  a  well-bred 
man's  talent  for  silence. 

The  Scotchman  had  lived  long  in  India, 
and  this  touch  of  the  occult  in  Jessica's 
two  personalities  set  him  talking  of  the 
"faquirs"  there,  whose  work,  he  said,  made 
all  similar  tricks  in  the  European  world  look 
like  child's-play. 

"They  have  secrets  of  mental  phenomena 
there,"  observed  Herr  Werner,  "that  we 
have  no  trace  of." 

"They    are   the    cleverest    cheats    living, 

[39] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


that's  all,"  replied  the  Scotchman,  with  a 
Briton's  contempt  for  things  outside  of 
Adam  Smith  and  Paley's  Theology. 

"Do  you  believe  in  ghosts?"  asked  the 
lady  from  Maine. 

"I  believe  in  banshees,"  interrupted  the 
old  Irish  lady  in  her  mellow  brogue. 

"I  lived  near  Belfast  for  ten  years,"  ob- 
served the  Scotch  gentleman,  "and  I  never 
even  heard  of  one,"  and  he  looked  conscious 
of  his  disposal  of  that  question. 

"Belfast!"  said  she  of  the  white  cap  and 
green  bow,  scornfully;  "Belfast  is  not  prop- 
erly Irish." 

"I  presume  the  proper  Irish  are  further 
south,"  he  rejoined  a  little  satirically. 

"No;  the  improper  Irish,"  said  the  old 
lady;  and  there  was  satisfaction  in  her  eye. 

"Well,"  rippled  on  the  lady  from  Maine, 
"I  don't  know  much  about  banshees, 
but  years  ago  I  made  a  collection  of  the 
ghosts  that  walk  in  the  castles  of  Europe, 
and  it  was  most  interesting.  Now,  there's 
the  'white  lady'  of—" 

[40] 


AT  TABLE  D'HOTE 


But  Frau  Liittichau  had  risen,  and  the 
various  tourists  were  practising  their  ffMahl- 
zeit"  on  each  other,  the  foreigners  with  a 
laugh,  the  Germans  with  a  polite  and  kindly 
gravity. 

"Come  to  my  room,"  said  the  lady  from 
Maine,  linking  her  arm  through  Jessica's. 
"I  want  to  show  you  some  of  those  handleless 
cups.  I'm  going  to  smuggle  them  through 
the  New  York  customs  as  broken  crockeiy, 
ain't  I,  Sam?"  turning  to  her  husband. 

"You  may  be,"  said  "Sam,"  "but  I'm  riot. 
I've  turned  honest.  Do  you  know  what  she 
did  with  me  one  year?"  he  asked  Jessica. 

"No." 

"Well,  I  was  runnin'  over  home  without 
her,  and  she  filled  my  trunk  up  with  her  bar- 
gains— ladies'  stockings,  new  petticoats,  and 
that  sort  of  thing — and  never  told  me 
a  word  about  it.  Of  course  I  took  my 
solemn  oath  that  I  had  nothing  but  my 
own  clothing  in  my  trunk,  and  then  they 
searched  it  and  found  all  these  things.  Gee- 
whiskers  1" 

[41] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"Come  along,"  said  the  lady  from  Maine 
to  Jessica.  "I'll  get  'em  in.  I  just  answer 
questions.  Unless  they  ask  me  specifically 
if  I've  got  any  handleless  cups,  I  won't  tell 
'em." 


[42] 


CHAPTER  IV 

t 
Herr  Werner 

JESSICA  was  indignant  every  time  she 
thought  during  the  next  few  days  of  Herr 
Vogt's  extraordinary  attempt  to  pronounce 
a  divorce  between  herself  and  her  voice;  but 
it  was  an  indignation  tempered  by  momen- 
tary misgivings  that  there  might  possibly  be 
something  in  the  notion  after  all.  Of  course, 
when  she  swung  about  to  squarely  face  such 
a  misgiving,  it  disappeared.  She  knew  that 
it  was  her  voice.  You  might  as  well  tell  her 
that  that  plump,  flexible  member  was  not 
her  hand.  It  was  just  Herr  Vogt's  exag- 
gerated, foreign  way  of  saying  that  she 
lacked  animation.  And  she  would  turn  away 
disgusted  from  the  subject,  only  to  feel  the 
"misgiving"  lean  over  her  shoulder,  and  in 
a  whisper  recall  memories  of  times  when, 
while  singing  under  some  excitement,  that 
strange  other  consciousness  did  seem  to  arise 
[43] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


in  her  and  take  her  voice  out  of  her  own 
keeping — a  consciousness  that  realized  the 
poetry  of  her  music  as  she  (Jessica)  had 
never  done. 

Well,  what  was  more  likely  than  that  the 
voicing  of  splendid  music  amidst  the  sym- 
pathetic silence  of  a  great  many  other 
people,  all  their  minds  following  with  hers 
the  sweep  of  the  composer's  thought,  should 
stir  her  imagination  if  she  had  any?  A  fig 
for  such  a  misgiving  as  that! 

As  for  Herr  Vogt,  he  made  no  further 
reference  to  his  outbreak,  but  contented  him- 
self with  touching  her  voice  here  and  there 
reverently — if  with  a  hopeless  melancholy 
— as  an  artist  might  polish  a  roughness  or 
two  from  a  great  statue,  which  somehow 
lacked  the  essential  similitude  of  life. 

A  week  went  by,  and  then  Jessica  had  a 
weird,  disquieting,  exasperating  experience. 
She  was  sitting  in  the  "pension"  drawing- 
room  one  afternoon  alone,  when  Herr  Wer- 
ner drifted  in  in  his  usual  aimless  way,  and 
after  making  her  a  formal,  silent,  smileless 
bow,  sat  down  at  the  book-case  where  he 
[44] 


HERR  WERNER 


tumbled  over  the  familiar  collection — Eng- 
lish, German,  French — in  search  of  some- 
thing to  read.  They  had  by  now  practically 
ceased  trying  to  talk  to  each  other;  they 
could  find  no  common  meeting  ground.  To 
him  she  was  not  only  uninteresting,  but  a 
perpetually  keen  disappointment.  Why 
was  she  not  the  woman  who  sang  with  her 
voice?  As  for  Jessica,  she  told  her  mother 
that  they  "bored  each  other  at  sight." 

After  a  time  the  impatient  fingers  of  the 
German,  finding  nothing  in  the  book-case 
fitted  to  his  mental  mood,  and  Jessica  hav- 
ing become  absorbed  in  her  romance — one 
of  Mr.  Anthony  Hope's  black-and-white 
sketches  of  sanguinary  sang  froid — he  shook 
his  luminous  head  as  if  flinging  off  a  burden, 
and,  striding  to  the  piano,  began  playing 
without  permission  or  apology. 

Mr.  Hope's  hero  was  at  the  moment  riding 
up  a  lonely  road  at  mad  speed  with 
a  haughty  lady  to  serve  and  a  cynical  villain 
to  thwart,  and,  as  Herr  Werner  played  on, 
Jessica  was  swept  more  and  more  into  the 
spirit  of  the  wild  race.  She  was  so  little 
[45] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


conscious  of  the  effect  of  the  music  upon  her, 
however,  that  she  thought  it  all  her  interest 
in  a  splendid  story,  until  Herr  Werner  sud- 
denly silenced  his  mounting,  hoof -beat  mel- 
ody and  let  his  fingers  wander  softly  among 
the  minor  keys.  Then  a  sadness  fell  upon 
her  and  she  let  the  book  slip  to  her  lap.  All 
in  a  flash  she  knew  that  it  was  the  music  her 
mind  had  been  following  and  not  the  tale, 
and  that  it  had  been  no  mere  listening  to  the 
music  with  the  cold,  critical  ear  she  usually 
turned  upon  another's  performance.  She 
shook  herself  out  of  the  mood  and  picked  up 
her  story.  But  the  melancholy  of  the  music 
seemed  to  smother  her  attention,  and,  in 
spite  of  her  resolve,  something  within  her 
was  listening — not  reading.  Then  as  she 
gave  herself,  through  sheer  pleasure  in  it, 
more  and  more  to  its  sad  magic,  the  liquid 
harmonies  began  to  paint  for  her  shadowy, 
shifting  pictures.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  in 
her  new  mood  to  think  that  she  did  not  see 
them — it  seemed  rather  that  she  had  always 
seen  them  when  certain  sounds  lapped  at  her 
ear.  Now  when  the  music  mourned,  she — 
[46] 


HERR  WERNER 


the  unromantic,  unimaginative  Jessica  Mur- 
ney — saw  across  a  sullen  river  a  dark  glade, 
and  within  it  rose  a  white  bier  bearing  a 
white  form,  and  about  the  bier  the  tall  cy- 
presses kept  silent  guard.  Then  the  music 
strengthened  and  swelled  to  a  deep,  sweet 
content;  and  the  still  cypresses  broadened 
into  spreading  elms,  touched  by  light  sum- 
mer airs,  and  the  white  bier  was  a  tall  white 
lady  resting  in  the  shade  while  little  chil- 
dren played  quietly  by  the  brink  of  the  river, 
no  longer  sullen  but  sparkling  in  the  sun- 
light. Then  the  music  spread  its  wings  and 
soared  toward  the  zenith ;  and  the  white  lady 
was  a  white  snow  peak  and  the  elms  a  fringe 
of  pines  far  below,  and  the  river  she  could 
hear  falling  through  crystal  caverns  of  eter- 
nal ice.  And  now  the  music  sank  as  if  tired 
to  the  vale  of  rest  and  the  white  lady  walked 
deep  in  the  shadow  of  the  pines  upon  the 
silent  carpet  of  their  slow  sowing  by  the  side 
of  the  winding  brook. 

She — the  prosaic — saw  all  this,  as  one  sees 
a  distant  view  through  a  thin  haze,  and  yet 
she  was  not  singing.  When  Herr  Werner 

[47] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


stopped  the  vision  slowly  faded;  and  when 
her  mother  came  in,  a  few  minutes  later, 
almost  the  memory  of  it  was  gone. 

As  for  Herr  Werner,  he  had  never  even 
looked  at  her.  When  her  mother  entered 
with  much  talk  about  "the  too  lovely  things" 
she  had  just  seen  in  the  shops  bubbling  over 
at  her  lips,  he  stopped  leafing  over  some 
music  he  had  found  on  the  piano  since  his 
fingers  had  rested  from  the  erratic  melody, 
and  walked,  erect,  out  of  the  room,  wholly 
unconscious  of  the  effect  of  his  playing. 

For  days  this  experience  haunted  Jessica 
like  a  guilty  secret.  She  told  no  one  of  it, 
not  even  her  mother,  and  it  gave  her  a  new 
reluctance  to  speak  of  Herr  Vogt's  uncanny 
theory.  There  were  hours  when,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  shame  of  it  and  the  steady- 
ing effect  of  the  wholesome  companion- 
ship of  Mr.  Hughes — of  which  she  had  come 
to  have  not  a  little — she  would  have  fled  this 
bewildering  German  Dresden  which  had 
made  music  a  religion  and — to  her  New 
England  eyes — religion  a  spectacle,  and 
now  put  her  in  doubt  of  her  own  identity. 
[48] 


CHAPTER  V 


A  "Pension"  Night 

THAT  night  the  Wagner  "Ring"  began  at 
the  opera,  and  everyone  went;  but  the  next 
it  was  whispered  about  at  dinner  that  there 
was  to  be  music  in  the  drawing-room  in  the 
evening  —  that  a  young  Pole  was  coming  in 
to  play  the  violin  and  that  possibly  Miss 
Murney  would  sing. 

"I  wonder  why  it  is,"  marvelled  the  lady 
from  Maine,  settling  herself  on  the  sofa 
after  dinner  with  her  cup  of  coffee,  "that 
Poles  are  always  so  musical." 

"It  is  their  soul-essence,"  said  Herr  Wer- 
ner, "crushed  out  of  them  by  oppression." 

"What!  You  say  that,  and  you  a  Ger- 
man!" 

"My  mother  was  a  Pole." 

"Indeed!  Well,  I  met  a  Pole  once  in  — 
let  me  see!  —  " 

"I  think,"  said  Hughes,  sotto  voce,  turn- 
[49] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


ing  to  Jessica,  "that  it  is  their  long  hair. 
Long  hair  has  always  meant  something 
from  Samson  down." 

"Yes,"  laughed  Jessica.  "That's  nearer 
it,  I  guess." 

"You  don't  endorse  the  theory  of  soul- 
essence,  then?" 

She  shook  her  head,  looking  apprehen- 
sively and  not  without  hostility  at  the  tall 
German  who  was  attending  to  the  Maine 
lady's  account  of  Poles  she  had  met.  Then 
in  a  yet  lower  tone — 

"Don't  you  think  some  people  lay  it  on 
a  little  thick  at  times?" 

"Seems  so  to  me,"  said  Hughes;  and  they 
exchanged  understanding  glances. 

"My!  I'm  so  tired  to-night,"  sighed  a 
young  lady  with  bright  eyes  and  a  worn 
face — one  of  a  party  of  five  from  Vassar. 

"Galleries  are  always  tiring,"  explained 
the  tireless  German  teacher  in  charge  of  the 
party. 

"It  appears  to  me,"  drawled  another  of 
the  quintette,  "that  touring  is  just  bed  and 
Baedeker — " 

[50] 


A  "PENSION"  NIGHT 


"Yes,"  laughed  the  first  girl;  "and  there's 
too  little  bed  and  too  much  Baedeker." 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  leader  of  the  party. 
"You  didn't  come  over  here  for  a  rest  cure." 

"How  did  you  like  the  gallery?"  asked 
Herr  Werner. 

"Oh!  perfectly  lovely!"  said  one  of  them. 
"That  Sistine  Madonna  is  too  sweet  for  any- 
thing" 

"Yes,"  and  the  German's  face  was  alight. 
"There  is  so  much  in  the  eyes — so  much — 
but  I  cannot  say  it."  Then,  after  a  mo- 
ment's thought,  he  went  on— "They  are 
wise — wise  as  the  Mother  of  God,  and  yet 
so  sweet  as  a  peasant  woman  with  her  baby." 

"And  those  cunning  cherubs — aren't  they 
cute?"  joined  in  the  girl  enthusiastically. 

"You  should  not  have  seen  them,"  said 
Herr  Werner  severely,  "the  same  day  that 
you  saw  the  Madonna.  They  are  of  another 
spirit." 

"They  are  the  comedy  of  the  picture,  I 
think,"  joined  in  the  white-haired  Irish  lady. 
"I  rest  myself  by  looking  at  their  dear  little 
mischievous  faces  and  their  tousled  hair." 
[51] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


"We  were  over  at  the  International  Ex- 
hibition to-day,"  remarked  the  Scotch  gen- 
tleman, "but  it  was  spoiled  for  Us — the  trail 
of  the  'impressionist'  is  over  everything." 

"There  is  one  thing  about  the  'impression- 
ist' painters  that  I  like,"  said  Hughes. 
"They  are  not  mean  in  the  matter  of  paint." 

"I  should  say  not,"  agreed  one  of  the 
Vassar  girls.  "I  always  wonder  how  an  'im- 
pressionist' knows  his  picture  from  his 
palette." 

"But  do  you  not  think,"  a  black-bearded 
French  gentleman  asked  of  her,  "that  the 
'impressionists'  do  not  get  fair  play  by 
being  hung  so  close  to  you  in  a  small  room?" 

"They  are  often  better  when  seen  from 
the  next  room,"  she  admitted. 

"You  must  get  them  in  focus,  so  to 
speak,"  he  went  on. 

"Most  pictures,"  said  the  Scotch  gentle- 
man, "should  be  seen  from  the  next  room — 
or  the  next  century." 

"Or,  as  a  gentleman  I  met  in  Paris  said 
once,  from  very  far  back  and  well  around 
[52] 


A  "PENSION"  NIGHT 


the    corner,"    contributed    the    lady    from 
Maine. 

Then  it  was  seen  that  the  young  Pole  was 
making  ready  to  play,  and  conversation  died 
away.  He  plied  a  nervous  bow,  and  his  co- 
pious black  hair  shook  loose  over  his  knitted 
forehead  as  he  straightened  and  bent  again 
with  the  music.  His  violin  seemed  as  much 
a  part  of  him  as  the  song  does  of  a  bird,  and 
you  felt  that  his  mastery  of  the  instrument 
must  have  been  born  with  him — teaching 
always  leaves  something  of  its  method  in 
sight.  As  he  finished,  a  patter  of  applause 
went  around,  but  the  real  thanks  came  in  the 
shower  of  congratulatory  ejaculations  in 
various  languages.  An  Italian  Signora 
kissed  her  hand  to  him,  and  a  group  of 
Danes  near  the  piano  beckoned  him  into 
their  midst.  Then  he  played  again,  shutting 
the  windows  to  keep  out  the  street  sounds 
that  had  visibly  annoyed  him  during  the 
first  selection;  and  then  again,  something 
of  his  own  composition. 

"Who  is  the  young  man's  teacher?"  the 
Irish  lady  asked  of  Frau  Liittichau. 
[53} 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"He  never  has  had  any  teacher,"  she  whis- 
pered back.  "He  is  here  taking  a  commer- 
cial education,  but  he  wants  to  have  some 
violin  lessons  very  badly." 

"Bless  me!" 

"His  father  won't  hear  of  it,  though.  He 
has  just  taught  himself." 

Now  Jessica  was  begged  to  sing,  and  she 
went  to  the  piano,  tossing  gay  remarks  into 
the  English-speaking  group  while  her 
mother  fussed  with  the  music  she  was  to 
play  as  an  accompaniment.  A  song  of 
misty  German  folk-lore  was  her  choice;  and 
from  the  moment  her  voice  rose  on  the  air, 
admiration  sat  openly  on  the  faces  of  the 
company.  The  Danish  corner  listened  with 
a  critical  ear,  for  two  of  them  were  profes- 
sional singers  from  the  opera  at  Copen- 
hagen; and  they  smiled  to  each  other  their 
appreciation  of  Jessica's  skill.  They  had 
looked  at  no  one  but  the  Pole  himself  when 
he  played — they  had  hardly  known  there 
was  any  one  else  in  the  room  to  look  at.  Jes- 
sica's singing  was  to  them  a  finished  perform- 
ance ;  it  reached  their  critical  sense,  and  satis- 
[54] 


A  "PENSION"  NIGHT 


fied  it — but  not  their  hearts.  There  was 
quite  a  formality  of  applause  when  she 
stopped;  though  it  curiously  lost  heart  al- 
most immediately,  for  Jessica  had  laughed 
a  swift,  deprecating  comment  over  at  the 
English  group  and  thus  reminded  the  room 
of  her  jolly,  unfanciful  self.  A  strange 
thing  was  that  people  were  always  a  little 
ashamed  of  their  ardour  over  Jessica's  sing- 
ing in  the  presence  of  Jessica  herself. 

Herr  Werner  felt  this  to  the  extreme, 
though  he  never  failed  to  respond  from  the 
depths  of  him  to  her  singing.  He  seemed  to 
hear  another  Jessica,  and  be  satisfied — a  joy 
that  was  not  given  to  Herr  Vogt.  Even 
now  he  was  still  under  the  spell  of  the  song, 
and  crossed  to  the  piano  to  ask  for  one  sim- 
ilar to  the  last. 

A  nervousness  fell  upon  Jessica  as  she 
refused;  for  she  had  begun  to  feel  that  his 
approach  was  a  menace  to  her  cheerful  san- 
ity. But  she  summoned  a  round-chinned 
smile  and  told  him  that  she  had  not  "taken" 
the  song  that  he  named,  and  that  she  did  not 
practice  her  music  on  innocent  people,  when 

[55] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


he  went  back  to  his  seat  with  a  moody  face — 
this  was  the  woman  of  earth. 

Then  Jessica  sang  again,  something 
Italian;  and  the  dark  Signora  listened  for 
whole  bars  with  so  motionless  a  pose  that 
only  her  eyes  seemed  alive.  Then  she  would 
stir  impatiently.  It  was  almost —  But  it 
was  not— 

"Ah!  you  English  have  no  souls,"  said 
the  Signora  to  herself  when  Jessica  had  fin- 
ished. 

"Won't  you  sing  an  Irish  song,  dear?" 
asked  the  old  Irish  lady;  and  she  sang 
"Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca"  so  that  there  were 
tears  in  the  old  blue  eyes;  and  Hughes  said 
heartily,  "Irish  music  is  good  enough  for 
me."  One  felt  that  even  Jessica  herself  en- 
joyed the  singing  of  this. 

Then  the  Pole  played  again,  and  one  of 
the  Danes  sang  a  high,  trumpeting  Danish 
song,  and  the  Vassar  quintette  said  that  they 
had  enjoyed  the  evening  immensely,  but 
that  they  must  really  beg  to  be  excused,  for 
they  had  a  hard  day  before  them  to-morrow. 

"We  have  little  time  for  mere  enjoy- 
[56] 


A  "PENSION"  NIGHT 


merit,"  laughed  one  of  them,  as  they  filed 
out,  not  without  stiffness.  Then  others  be- 
gan to  go,  so  there  was  no  more  singing; 
but  gusts  of  gay  chat,  now  in  German,  now 
in  French,  now  in  Danish,  and  now  in  Eng- 
lish, sounded  from  different  parts  of 
the  room  as  with  slow  reluctance  the  little 
party  thinned  out. 

The  last  to  go  was  the  lady  from  Maine, 
who  stayed  to  tell  Frau  Llittichau  that  her 
trip  to  Meissen,  the  seat  of  the  manufacture 
of  "Dresden  china,"  which  had  been  fixed 
for  the  following  day,  was  again  postponed 
because  some  of  the  party  could  not  go. 

"I  want  them  all  to  come,"  she  said,  "for 
I  feel  that  it  is  my  mission  in  life  to  give 
frivolous  tourists  proper  ideas  of  porcelain." 


[57] 


CHAPTER  VI 

1- 
Mr.  Hughes 

DURING  the  days  that  followed  that  first 
torrid  afternoon  in  the  Grosser  Garten, 
when  it  was  seldom  cool  and  only  occasional- 
ly "not  quite  so  hot,"  Jessica  and  Mr. 
Hughes — Theodore  Hughes,  known  to  in- 
timates as  "Teddy" — grew  to  be  what  she 
termed,  in  writing  to  her  latest  chum,  "great 
friends."  Mrs.  Murney  was  a  firm  believer 
in  the  doctrine  of  passive  resistance  to  heat, 
and  liked  to  keep  her  room  from  luncheon 
to  dinner,  while  the  active  Jessica  stifled  in 
the  house  and  hailed  with  joy  Mr.  Hughes's 
invitation  to  the  freedom  of  the  tennis  courts. 
So  on  broiling  afternoons  they  would  sally 
forth  together  in  the  lightest  of  clothing  and 
walk  gaily  along  the  wide  Biirgerwiese  to 
the  courts,  where,  with  a  few  other  uncon- 
querables,  they  would  play  madly  at  a  game 
that  may  be  a  "love  game"  even  when  both 
[58] 


MR.  HUGHES 


score.  Then  they  would  sit  in  the  shade 
of  the  trees  that  line  the  courts  on  one  side 
where  the  air  came  out  of  the  green  depths 
of  the  Grosser  Garten  a  little  more  coolly, 
and  comment  on  the  play  of  the  others  and 
discuss  their  individual  likes  and  dislikes, 
and  exchange  amusing  incidents  of  foreign 
travel  with  the  growing  intimacy  of  open- 
minded,  non-secretive,  not-too-deep  people. 
Jessica  got  to  know  that  Mr.  Hughes  was 
a  son  of  a  family  that  had  "an  estate" — not 
that  he  ever  said  so  as  an  isolated  announce- 
ment— and  that  he  was  travelling  abroad 
with  much  leisure,  but  without  much  definite 
plan  before  "settling  down  in  life" — what- 
ever that  might  mean.  There  was  a  long 
list  of  things  that  "he  did  not  go  in  for" — 
not  that  he  condemned  others  who  did  go  in 
for  them;  but  Jessica  knew  that,  at  the  seat 
of  his  precise  private  judgment,  he  thought 
them  really  very  foolish.  He  did  not  "go 
in"  for  art  very  much;  especially  "willowy, 
wallowy  modern  art."  Old  statuary  he 
liked,  however,  when  it  was  not  too  battered. 
He  had  been  in  Rome  during  the  winter, 
[59] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


and  enjoyed  "brushing"  up  his  history  and 
his  classics;  and  his  mild  interest  in  antique 
statuary  had  taken  him  twice  to  the  Capito- 
line  Museum  and  twice  to  the  Vatican.  He 
had  run  down  to  Naples,  but  it  was  "a  nest 
of  beggars."  He  liked  opera,  but  he  did 
not  worship  it  the  way  these  Germans 
seemed  to.  "Why,  an  opera  here  is  like  a 
church  service,  by  Jovel"  he  said.  Had 
Miss  Murney  ever  seen  a  Christmas  panto- 
mime in  London?  No?  Well,  that  was 
the  thing.  In  fact,  they  knew  how  to  stage 
nothing  on  the  continent.  You  had  to  for- 
get that  there  was  such  a  place  as  London  if 
you  wanted  to  enjoy  the  theatre  here. 

"Or  New  York,"  said  Jessica. 

"I  quite  believe  that,"  he  agreed,  "but  I 
have  never  seen  New  York." 

"You  should  come  over  before  you  'settle 
down.'  " 

"It  is  very  possible  that  I  shall,"  was  his 
response.     "I  want  to  have  some  'cookies,' ' 
he  went  on,  with  the  air  of  teasing  her.  "I've 
heard  so  much  of  them  from  Americans." 

'  'Cookies'    are    all    right,"   said    Jessica 
[60] 


MR.  HUGHES 


heartily,  with  a  round  face  of  happy  recollec- 
tion. "But  you  won't  get  them  in  New 
York — you'd  better  come  up  to  the  White 
Mountains  for  them." 

There  was  an  uncalculated  touch  of  per- 
sonal invitation  in  this  that  was  at  first  a 
little  pleasing  and  then  just  a  little  em- 
barrassing to  them  both,  which  showed  how 
very  well  their  growth  into  "great  friends" 
was  getting  on.  But  the  sense  of  pleas- 
ure in  venturing  upon  possibly  dangerous 
ground  predominated,  and  Jessica  went  on: 

"And  we'll  give  you  green  corn  and  show 
you  how  to  eat  it." 

"Is  it  puzzling?"  he  asked,  laughing. 

"Well,  they  say  it  is  to  strangers,"  said 
Jessica.  "To  me,  it  is  as  natural — and,  oh! 
so  delicious — and  we'll  miss  it  all  this  fall" — 
this  last  in  sorrowful  tones,  not  without  a 
ring  of  genuineness. 

"It  is  like  pop-corn,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes;  only  bigger  and  sweeter  and  juicier 
— and  you  eat  it  on  the  cob." 

"The  cob?" 

"Don't  you  know  the  cob,  you  poor,  be- 
[61] 


THE    PENSIONNAIRES 


nighted  Englishman?  Why,  it  is  the — the 
stock  the  kernels  are  set  round  in." 

"Oh!" 

"And  then  I'll  make  you  a  pie;"  and  she 
smiled  merrily  at  him. 

"Oh,  I  know  a  pie,"  he  said  indignantly. 
"Not  that  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  you  make 
one,"  he  added,  his  eyes  falling  upon  her 
rounded  arms  as  they  shone,  flesh-tinted, 
through  her  gauzy  sleeves.  He  fancied 
them  free  even  of  the  gauze,  and  spotted 
here  and  there  with  flour. 

"No,  you  don't,"  she  contradicted,  shak- 
ing her  laughing  face  at  him.  "You  know 
a  scrappy  meat  affair  with  a  dough  cover- 
ing; and  you  know  a  'tart' — a  thick  slab  of 
pastry  spread  thin  with  jam.  But  a  pie 
is  a  different  thing." 

He  waited  for  her  explanation,  his  usual 
quizzical  smile  in  his  eyes. 

"A  pie,"  she  went  on,  "is  an  abundance  of 
rich  and  juicy  cooked  fruit — perhaps  cher- 
ries, perhaps  long  blackberries,  perhaps  ap- 
ples— in  a  thin  envelope  of  crisp,  browned 
crust.  The  crust  should  only  hold  the  fruit, 
[62] 


MR.  HUGHES 


and  then  dissolve  in  your  mouth,  giving  it  a 
rich,  buttery  flavour." 

"Do  you  write  for  the  cookery  books,  may 
I  ask?"  was  his  comment.  And  then,  when 
she  disclaimed  this  occupation— 

"Well,  you  certainly  must  prepare  the  ad- 
vertisements for  some  yeast,  or  the  only  san- 
itary substitute  for  lard,  or  something  of 
that  sort." 

"Oh,  you're  envious,"  she  said.  "You 
want  some  pie — that's  it." 

"Can  you  make  this  ambrosial  dish  your- 
self?" 

"Sure!"  she  responded.  "Though  it's 
dangerous  in  our  country  to  tell  a  young 
man  that."  And  no  sooner  was  this  last 
spoken  than  she  wished  that  she  had  not 
said  it. 

"Why?"  he  promptly  inquired,  to  see 
what  she  would  say,  for  he  knew  as  well  as 
she  the  meaning  of  the  remark. 

"Oh,  nothing!"  laughing  confusedly.     "I 

sit  here  and  rattle  on  and  say  silly  things." 

And  she  got  up  and  stood  strumming  on  the 

net  of  the  racket  with  her  live,  pink-cush- 

[63] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


ioned  fingers.  Hughes  rose  with  her, 
though  his  eyes  still  rested  on  her  averted, 
flushed  face.  His  first  impulse  was  to  tell 
her  with  a  laugh  that  he  knew  what  her  re- 
mark implied,  and  see  what  then  would  come 
from  her  quick  tongue.  But,  for  some 
reason,  as  he  watched  her,  he  could  not  quite 
make  a  joke  of  it.  The  embarrassment  in 
her  attitude  appealed  to  something  new  in 
him,  and  he  felt  an  answering  shyness. 
The  flush  on  her  face  did  not  touch  his  sense 
of  amusement,  but  rather  stirred  a  certain 
tender  pity  in  him,  so  that  when  he  spoke, 
all  he  said  was — 

"Shall  we  walk?" 

And  there  was  that  in  his  voice  that  con- 
veyed to  her  maiden  sensitiveness  all  that 
he  had  been  thinking  and  feeling;  and  as 
they  set  off  together  in  silence  toward  the 
shaded  walks  of  the  Grosser  Garten,  she 
turned  her  eyes  upon  him  for  a  moment  in 
an  appreciative  glance,  in  which  there  'was 
gratitude  for  his  forbearance,  mingled  with 
a  recognition  of  a  more  delicate  intuition 
than  she  had  known  he  possessed. 
[64] 


MR.  HUGHES 


In  Jessica  the  spirit  of  play  was  never 
held  long  in  subjection  to  formality.  One 
day  they  wandered  farther  than  usual  and 
found  an  abundance  of  long-stemmed  wild 
flowers — some  of  them  new  to  her,  but 
others,  old  friends  of  the  New  Hampshire 
hill-sides — and  down  she  sank  into  their 
midst  and  began  weaving  them  into  loose 
chains,  while  Hughes  stood  helplessly  by  at 
first  and  then  assisted  by  gathering  great 
bunches  farther  afield,  and  piling  them  at 
her  side.  Then  she  made  him  sit  down  and 
take  off  his  hat,  while  she  wound  him  round 
and  crowned  him  with  her  floral  wreaths, 
singing  with  bursts  of  frank  laughter 
snatches  of  child-time  songs  as  she  worked. 
And  very  content  he  looked  when  he  was  not 
teased  by  the  thought  that  some  one  might 
come. 

To  end  with,  she  dared  him  to  wear  his 
chains  home;  but  he  revolted,  alleging  that 
his  bondage  was  plain  enough  without  that. 
So  she  wound  them  all  carefully  off,  and 
coiled  them  as  a  sailor  does  his  ropes  in  a 
little  recess  beside  a  knoll,  and  said  that  he 
[65] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


must  come  there  every  fair  day  and  wear  his 
chains  for  a  while. 

On  another  afternoon  she  found  some  tall 
dandelions  and  shouted  a  happy  welcome  to 
them. 

"Now  I'll  show  you  what  I  used  to  do 
when  a  little  girl,"  she  said,  picking  several 
carefully  by  pushing  her  fingers  deep  into 
the  grass  toward  their  roots. 

"Sit  down  there  where  you  can  see  and 
learn,"  she  directed,  motioning  to  a  place  in 
the  grass.  "Now,"  seating  herself  opposite 
to  him,  "watch!"  And  she  put  the  tube  of 
the  dandelion's  stem  against  her  full, 
pursed-up  lips,  and  split  it  cautiously  with 
the  red  tip  of  her  tongue  that  just  flashed 
into  sight  for  a  moment.  Then  she  curled 
each  half  back  and  back  until,  after  many 
mock-serious  examinations,  she  was  satisfied. 
This  operation  was  repeated  with  three 
others,  while  Hughes  dutifully  watched, 
though  not  without  a  running  comment  that 
delayed  the  business  by  bringing  frequently 
to  the  pursed  lips  the  relaxation  of  a  laugh. 
When  the  four  were  done  she  put  the  tight 
[66] 


MR.  HUGHES 


circles  at  the  end  of  what  had  been  left 
straight  of  the  dandelion  stems  into  her 
mouth  and  drew  them  out  again,  laughing 
girlishly  at  her  own  girlishness,  when  they 
hung  in  long,  twisting  ringlets  like  the 
curled  hair  of  a  child.  Then  with  great  care 
she  adjusted  one  behind  each  of  their  ears, 
the  ringlets  hanging  over  their  cheeks  in 
front.  Sitting  back,  they  regarded  each 
each  other  with  deep,  hardly  preserved 
solemnity,  until  laughter  broke  riotously 
through  and  they  shook  loose  from  their 
curls  like  prankish  children  with  a  common 
merriment. 

"I  will  try  to  think  of  more  games  to  play 
with  you,"  said  Jessica,  "for  I  never  saw 
you  forget  so  completely  the  necessity  of 
maintaining  'that  repose  which  stamps  the 
caste  of  Vere  de  Vere.' ' 

"Do,  please,"  he  said;  but  in  the  saying 
of  it,  he  stiff ened  into  his  habitual  calm  that 
seemed  ever  on  the  edge  of  boredom. 

Other  days  of  like  kind  followed — days 
when  the  heat  imprisoned  "Mamma";  and 
two  white-clad  young  folk  battled  with  each 

[67] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


other  on  the  soft  turf  of  the  tennis  courts, 
calling  "fifteen-love"  and  "thirty-love"  and 
other  things  across  the  net,  and  then  strolled 
off  in  search  of  coolness  along  the  heat- 
emptied  paths  of  the  Garten.  They  were 
taking  the  good  poet's  advice  and  dwelling 
in  the  living  present,  thinking  nothing  of 
the  future,  though  their  chat  ran  often  to 
the  past.  Into  Jessica's  conversation  there 
dropped  occasionally  a  reference  to  "Jack" ; 
and  one  day  it  came  out  that  "Jack"  was  an 
opera  singer  and  wanted  Jessica  to  go  on 
the  stage.  Mr.  Hughes  was  dispassionately 
of  another  opinion,  and  incidentally  critical 
of  the  theatrical  profession. 

"It's  all  paint  and  paste-board  on  the 
stage,"  he  said;  "and  if  I  had  a  sister" — he 
looked  very  solemn  as  he  said  this — "I  would 
advise  her  to  stay  off  it." 

Jessica  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Was 
that  his  opinion?  Or  was  it — was  it — Jack? 
It  couldn't  be.  Why,  she  and  Mr.  Hughes 
hardly  knew  each  other;  and  then  Jack — 
Jack  of  all  persons — it  was  too  ridiculous. 
But  then  Mr.  Hughes  did  not  know  Jack. 
[68] 


MR.  HUGHES 


"Jack,"  she  said  as  if  changing  the  sub- 
ject, "is  to  be  married  to  a  friend  of  mine 
next  month." 

Mr.  Hughes  felt  that  this  was  more  satis- 
factory even  than  if  he  were  already  mar- 
ried to  a  friend  of  hers,  but  he  did  not  say 
so.  He  merely  remarked— 

"Opera,  of  course,  does  give  opportuni- 
ties." 

Jessica  looked  at  his  square- jawed  face, 
but  it  revealed  nothing  save  an  access  of 
cheerfulness.  Yet,  being  a  woman,  she 
measured  the  change  of  temperature  to  a 
nicety;  and  it  was  a  dangerous  eye  that  she 
turned  upon  the  strolling  young  English- 
man. There  was  mischief  in  it,  but  there 
was  a  new  interest,  too ;  there  was  a  touch  of 
conscious  superiority — of  a  knowledge  of 
the  other's  weakness  and  how  to  play  upon 
it — but  just  back  of  it  lay  the  faintest  sug- 
gestion of  a  coming  shadow,  the  shadow 
of  a  woman's  eternal  yearning  to  submit. 
Hughes,  belonging  to  the  blind  sex  at  its 
blindest  age,  saw  nothing  of  this;  but  when 
he  next  met  Jessica's  eye,  even  he  knew  that 
[69] 


THE    PEXSIOXNAIRES 


they  had  passed  another  stage  on  the  wind- 
ing path  of  acquaintanceship. 

When,  later,  they  arrived  at  the  upper 
hall  of  the  "pension,"  they  met  the  lady  from 
Maine,  who  said  excitedly — 

"Can  you  go  to  Meissen  to-morrow?  Now 
don't  say  'no.'  All  the  others  can.  I've 
got  them  rounded  up  at  last.  I  was  almost 
despairing." 

"Why,  I  can  go,"  said  Jessica,  "if  Mam- 
ma can." 

"Well,  she  can  go,  for  I've  seen  her;  and 
I  think  she  said  'Yes'  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure,  to  take  so 
much  trouble,"  observed  Hughes,  though  he 
did  not  look  convinced  of  the  truth  of  his 
own  statement. 


[70] 


CHAPTER  VII 

f 
The  Lady  from  Maine 

"I  AM  sorry  that  that  Vassar  party  got 
away,"  said  the  lady  from  Maine  to  her 
"personally  conducted  Meissen  party,"  as 
they  were  breakfasting  together  next  morn- 
ing so  as  to  get  an  early  train.  "They 
never  went  out  to  Meissen  at  all,"  she  went 
on.  "They  will  go  home,  having  been  to 
Dresden,  knowing  nothing  of  'Dresden 
china.'" 

"Well,  they  must  know  a  good  deal  about 
Dresden,"  said  Mr.  Hughes;  "for  they 
seemed  to  me  to  be  going  round  and  round 
all  the  time,  stopping  off  at  the  'pension'  oc- 
casionally for  some  hurried  refreshment." 

"That's  just  it,"  replied  the  lady  from 
Maine;  "they  trail  round  on  the  beaten 
track,  seeing  what  Baedeker  tells  them  to 
see;  but  they  never  use  their  heads  at  all  to 
pick  out  characteristic  things.  Not  that  I 

[71] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


should  criticise,  for  I  used  to  do  that,  too, 
but  now  I  never  'do'  an  art  gallery — I  go 
to  see  this  picture  or  that — and  I  go  into 
the  shops  and  talk  to  the  people  and  learn 
things  all  the  time."  And  she  took  another 
roll  and  asked  for  the  marmalade — provided 
for  the  English  tourists.  "Eat  plenty,"  she 
advised,  "for  you  may  get  a  slim  lunch  at 
Meissen." 

"I  won't  'do'  galleries,  either,"  said  the 
Scotch  gentleman  to  his  moustache,  "when 
I've  done  them  all  to  satiety." 

There  were  in  the  party — Mrs.  Murney 
and  Jessica,  Mr.  Hughes,  an  English  lady 
and  her  daughter  who  had  just  come  to 
Dresden  and  who  took  advantiage  of  the 
chance  to  go  to  Meissen  "in  a  pahty,"  a  firm- 
chinned  American  lady,  her  son  and  her 
weary-eyed  husband,  the  Scotch  gentleman 
and  his  wife,  and  Herr  Werner. 

"There  is  rather  a  good  schloss  at  Meissen, 
is  there  not?"  asked  the  young  English  girl. 

"Beautiful!"  said  the  lady  from  Maine. 
"Better  than  the  one  here,  I  think." 

"It  has  much  of  the  romance  of  history," 
[72] 


THE  LADY  FROM  MAINE 
r  i 

added  Herr  Werner.  "It  is  that  I  chiefly 
go  to  see." 

"There  are  schlosses  everywhere  in  Ger- 
many," said  the  lady  from  Maine,  with  a 
fine  air  of  impartiality,  though  it  was  a  hos- 
tile eye  she  turned  on  Herr  Werner,  "but 
there  is  only  one  Royal  Porcelain  Manufac- 
tory." 

"Pouf !"  ejaculated  Herr  Werner.  "Lit- 
tle daubed  clay  figures!" 

The  rigid  patience  on  the  Maine  lady's 
face  was  beautiful  to  see.  Mr.  Hughes 
took  refuge  from  the  necessity  of  rebuking 
such  discourtesy  by  looking  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  a  word. 

"I  have  always  heard  that  the  Dresden 
china  is  rather  artistic,"  said  the  English 
lady. 

"It  is — where  it  copies  Sevres"  (he  pro- 
nounced it  "Sever"),  joined  in  the  Maine 
lady's  husband,  with  the  emphasis  of  the 
long  suppressed.  He  was  taking  breakfast 
with  the  party,  but  he  was  decidedly  not  go- 
ing to  Meissen  "for  the  fifth  time." 

"But  you  don't  see  anything  of  the  man- 

[73] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


ufacture  at  Sevres,  I  am  told,"  put  in  Jes- 
sica. 

"Not  a  thing!"  corroborated  the  lady 
from  Maine,  who  always  seemed  to  have 
been  everywhere.  "They  show  you  one  man 
who  pretends  to  be  working  with  clay,  and 
he  gives  you  a  little  unglazed  cup  to  hold 
which  breaks  in  your  fingers — they  always 
do  that;  and  that's  everything  you  see,  ex- 
cept the  museum  and  the  finished  work,  of 
course." 

"But  the  finished  work!"  said  her  hus- 
band, compressing  his  lips,  "that's  prime,  I 
can  tell  you.  None  of  this  fried  cake  busi- 
ness, but  art — real  art." 

"Painting  on  porcelain,"  observed  Herr 
Werner,  "is  difficult,  but  it  is  not  art.  It  is 
a  copy  of  art  sometimes;  but  art  seeks  the 
best,  not  the  worst  materials.  Art  does  not 
expend  itself  in  overcoming  needless  diffi- 
culties; it  takes  the  smoothest,  shortest  road 
to  produce  the  best  picture." 

"What  do  you  call  porcelain  painting, 
then?"  asked  Jessica,  who  felt  a  desire  to 
protest  against  so  much  dogmatism. 

[74] 


THE  LADY  FROM  MAINE 

"Ornamentation,  if  you  like,"  returned 
Herr  Werner,  coldly,  and  then  moved,  per- 
haps unconsciously,  by  the  feeling  that  she 
had  the  soul  of  an  artist  within  her  to  which 
she  should  give  heed,  he  cried  in  a  tone  of 
open  disgust — "But  you  know  it  is  not  art." 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  kind,"  returned 
Jessica  in  prompt  resentment,  at  which  some 
looked  up  and  some  looked  down,  and  every- 
body felt  the  embarrassment  of  an  approach 
to  a  "scene."  Herr  Werner  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  poured  for  himself  another 
cup  of  coffee. 

After  breakfast  they  all  walked  over  to 
the  great  Hauptbahnhof,  bought  their  tick- 
ets, and  then  climbed  to  the  first  story,  which 
is  on  a  level  with  the  railway  tracks.  There 
the  polite  German  officials,  in  their  neat  uni- 
forms and  their  round-peaked  caps,  showed 
them  the  train  to  Meissen,  and  they 
clambered  into  neighboring  compartments, 
Mr.  Hughes  going  with  the  Murney  ladies 
and  Herr  Werner  stalking  away  to  the 
other  end  of  the  car.  Jessica  had  consid- 
erable to  say,  while  they  waited  for  the  train 
[75] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


to  start,  about  the  German's  rudeness.  Her 
mother  said  soothingly  that  she  need  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  him,  and  Mr. 
Hughes  added  that  what  such  chaps  said 
really  did  not  matter,  did  it? 

The  train  drew  out  over  a  long  viaduct, 
with  the  city  at  the  right,  across  the  Elbe, 
and  then  by  level  market  gardens  and  low 
hills  and  curious  German  villages,  until  the 
grey  schloss  on  the  heights  above  Meissen 
was  to  be  glimpsed  in  the  distance.  Arrived, 
they  all  went  first  to  the  porcelain  works, 
mounting  a  stumpy  horse-tram  at  the  sta- 
tion, and  rolling  along  through  the  winding 
streets  of  the  still  mediaeval  town.  There 
was  a  fair  in  progress,  which  filled  the 
"Grosse  Markt"  with  canvas  booths  in  which 
every  sort  of  merchandise  was  sold,  from 
wonderful  German  cakes  to  piles  of  boots 
which  purchasers  sat  down  on  the  paving  to 
try  on,  while  long  rows  of  rough-made 
crockery  lay  in  a  bedding  of  straw  strewn 
down  the  neighboring  streets.  When  they 
reached  the  porcelain  factory,  they  paid 
their  "mark"  each  and  were  conducted  over 
[76] 


THE  LADY  FROM  MAINE 

t  !K 

the  rambling  place  by  a  studious-look- 
ing, spectacle-wearing  German,  who  knew 
enough  English  nouns  to  name  the  things  he 
showed,  but  who  could  no  more  construct  an 
English  sentence  than  he  could  enjoy  Eng- 
lish ale.  However,  the  lady  from  Maine 
more  than  made  up  for  his  lack,  until  at  last 
he  never  seemed  to  speak  except  to  contra- 
dict her.  Then  they  went  into  the  show- 
room to  price  "souvenirs"  and  marvel  at  the 
costliness  of  the  simplest  cups,  while  Herr 
Werner  sat  on  a  bench  outside  in  the  sun- 
light, waiting  until  they  should  be  finished. 
When  that  would  have  been  it  would  be 
hard  to  say  if  the  firm-chinned  new-comer — 
she  was  Mrs.  Drake,  of  Jersey  City,  U.  S. 
A. — had  not  consulted  her  watch,  and  an- 
nounced that  they  must  go  if  they  wished 
to  lunch  on  the  schloss  hill.  Whereat  Mr. 
Drake  got  up  from  his  chair  at  the  end  of 
the  show-room  nearest  the  door,  in  a  prompt, 
well-trained  manner,  and  walked  out  to  the 
roadside  to  wait  for  a  tram.  His  son  idled 
up  beside  him  and  stood  ready  to  signal  the 
tram  driver  with  an  umbrella. 

[77] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


"What!  are  they  going  already?"  asked 
the  lady  from  Maine,  peering  out  of  the 
window. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Drake,  who  was  buy- 
ing another  placque  while  awaiting  the  wav- 
ing of  her  son's  umbrella.  "It's  time  for 
lunch." 

"By  Jove!  so  it  is,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Hughes,  straightening  up  hopefully  from  a 
case  he  thought  he  was  looking  at. 

"But  I  haven't  shown  you  half  what  I 
wanted  you  to  see  yet,"  protested  the  lady 
from  Maine  pathetically. 

Still  they  all  moved  out,  telling  her  how 
grateful  they  were  to  her,  as  they  politely 
carried  her  along;  but  she  told  them  of 
things  they  had  not  seen  all  the  way  up  in 
the  tram  and  Up  the  side  of  the  schloss  hill, 
until  the  massive,  battlemented  bridge  lead- 
ing into  the  schloss  enclosure  filled  their  at- 
tention; and  many  of  them  were  things  the 
missing  of  which  meant  "missing  the  best 
of  their  trip." 

The  bridge  once  carried,  a  division  arose. 
Some  were  for  lunching  first  and  then  "do- 
[78] 


THE  LADY  FROM  MAINE 

ing"  the  church  and  the  schloss  afterward; 
others  favoured  visiting  the  schloss  at  once, 
lest  a  black  cloud  which  was  rising  in  the 
northern  sky,  bring  rain  and  spoil  the  view. 
Herr  Werner  and  Mrs.  Drake  led  the 
''now"  party,  while  Mrs.  Murney  and  the 
lady  from  Maine  were  for  luncheon  first. 

"Well,  we  can  divide,"  said  Herr  Wer- 
ner. "They  will  take  a  party  of  five 
through;  so  if  four  others  will  come  with 
me  we  can  go  now,  and  then  lunch  while  the 
others  are  visiting  the  schloss." 

"That's  so,"  said  Mrs.  Drake  briskly. 
"There  are  three  of  us ;  you  make  four,  now 
who  will  be  the  fifth?" 

Mr.  Drake  heard  this  enrolment  of  him- 
self with  the  "schloss  first,  luncheon  any 
time"  party  without  either  surprise  or  en- 
thusiasm, and,  sitting  down  on  the  wall,  he 
looked  sadly  far  over  the  fruitful  valley 
and  then  at  the  open  restaurant  window. 

"I  think  we  shall  go,  shall  we  not,  Mam- 
ma?" said  the  English  girl. 

"We  will  go  to  luncheon,"  said  "Mam- 
ma," moving  off  in  that  direction. 

[79] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"Well,  mayn't  I  go,  Mamma? — I'm  not 
the  least  bit  hungry,"  asked  the  daughter  in 
a  sweetly  submissive  voice. 

"Just  as  you  like,  dear,"  said  her  mother, 
"but  you  would  be  the  better  of  a  chop." 

Then  they  both  smiled  lovingly  on  each 
other,  and  the  mother  went  off  to  the  restau- 
rant, and  the  daughter  went  and  stood,  as  if 
for  chaperoning,  by  Mrs.  Drake. 

The  path  of  the  five,  with  Mrs.  Drake  and 
Herr  Werner  at  their  head,  and  Mr.  Drake, 
carrying  Mrs.  Drake's  cloak  and  the  Baede- 
ker, bringing  up  a  slow-paced  rear,  lay  away 
from  the  restaurant  door,  around  a  gray 
mediaeval  church,  rising  in  the  centre  of  the 
schloss  enclosure  and  up  to  the  foot  of  a 
round  corner  tower,  within  which  wound  a 
stone  spiral  stairway — the  famous  Grosser 
Wendelstein — to  the  upper  stories.  Herr 
Werner  fetched  the  girl  who  was  to  show 
them  through,  and  she  unlocked  a  heavy 
door  which  gave  upon  the  bottom  of  the 
stairway,  and  they  disappeared  into  the 
gloom  of  the  turret  and  the  Middle  Ages. 

The  others  found  their  way  through  the 
[80] 


THE  LADY  FROM  MAINE 

i  _  K 

restaurant  to  a  garden  beyond,  which, 
perched  upon  its  eirie  at  the  edge  of  a  sheer 
cliff,  hung  over  the  red-tiled  town  far  below. 
But  their  view  to  the  north  was  entirely  shut 
off  by  the  blank  wall  of  one  of  the  old  re- 
ligious buildings  in  connection  with  the 
schloss.  So  it  happened  that  they  lunched 
in  peace,  not  knowing  that  the  black  cloud 
had  mounted  and  spread  over  the  northern 
sky  like  the  rising  of  an  inky  curtain,  and 
that  the  world  visibly  cowered  under  its  on- 
coming shadow,  the  air  sluggish  in  fear,  the 
winding  river  far  below  complaining  hoarse- 
ly of  the  overhanging  menace.  The  grim 
schloss  alone  fronted  the  threatened  assault 
on  the  lofty  top  of  its  rugged  crag  with  no 
change  of  face,  the  sunshine  still  lying,  sickly 
and  pale  to  death,  on  its  gray  mass.  About 
it  had  played  the  fires  of  many  a  storm, 
heaven-born  and  man-made — that  was  its 
business  in  life. 

The  Murneys  and  Mr.  Hughes  finishing 
first,  they  crossed  the  court,  still  yellow  with 
sunlight,  and  awaited  the  others  just  inside 
[81] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


the  stairway  tower.  Down  tramped  the 
people  from  overhead,  Mrs.  Drake  leading. 
"There's  a  big  storm  coming,"  she  an- 
nounced, as  she  swept  into  the  court;  "but 
it  may  be  over  before  you  get  through  with 
the  schloss" — and  she  was  off  toward  the 
corner  of  the  church,  around  which  lay  the 
path  to  the  restaurant.  Mr.  Drake  fol- 
lowed in  a  downcast  manner,  though  there 
was  now  a  little  glimmer  of  anticipation  in 
his  eye  as  he  thought  of  luncheon ;  but  young 
Drake  was  quite  perked  up,  telling  the  Eng- 
lish girl  of  some  fun  he  had  had  while  room- 
ing in  the  Latin  Quarter  in  Paris.  She 
patted  his  self-approval  with  eager,  pleased 
questions  until  they  were  just  entering  the 
restaurant  door,  where  her  mother  still  was, 
when  she  said  in  a  meek  voice — 
"Mamma  does  not  like  Paris!" 
While  the  Murneys  stood  waiting  with 
Mr.  Hughes  just  within  the  shadow  of  the 
tower,  the  first  big  drops  of  the  storm  came 
and  then  a  swirl  of  rain.  The  new  darkness 
lightened  a  moment,  and  then  the  thunder 
boomed. 

[82] 


THE  LADY  FROM  MAINE 

+  -.-.-,.—.,— .fc. 

"We  can't  stay  here,"  cried  Mrs.  Mur- 
ney.  "This  place  will  be  struck  sure." 

"Nonsense,  Mamma,"  said  Jessica. 
"We're  as  safe  here  as  anywhere." 

"You  stay  if  you  want  to,"  replied  Mrs. 
Murney,  "but  I'm  going  to  ask  Mr.  Hughes 
to  take  me  back." 

"But  I  can't  stay  alone,"  protested  Jessi- 
ca, wanting  to  humor  her  mother  and  yet 
fearing  that  they  would  be  shut  out  of  the 
schloss  until  too  near  closing  hour,  if  they 
once  let  the  storm  get  between  them  and  this 
door. 

"No,"  admitted  Mrs.  Murney,  and  she 
showed  a  determination  to  stay  in  the  schloss 
and  dare  the  lightning.  But  another  reflec- 
tion of  an  unseen  bolt  glimmered  and  the 
thunder  crashed  again.  "The  others  will 
come  presently  if  you  will  stay,"  she  cried, 
and  started  out  into  the  now  heavily  falling 
rain. 

"I'll  come  back,"  whispered  Hughes,  and, 
running  after  Mrs.  Murney,  he  took  her 
arm  in  order  to  help  her  pace.  The  slant- 
ing rain  showed  thick  against  their  hurrying 
[83] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


backs,  and  then  they  disappeared  behind  the 
gray  buttress  of  the  church.  A  couple  of 
minutes  passed,  during  which  the  downpour 
seemed  to  increase  with  every  second.  The 
big  bullying  drops  fought  each  other  for 
right  of  way,  and  Jessica  stepped  back  with- 
in the  tower  to  avoid  the  spray  flung  up 
from  their  mad  self-destruction  on  the  pave- 
ment outside.  Then  gusts  of  wind  swept 
this  way  and  that  across  the  court,  carrying 
the  rain  like  charging  columns  before  them; 
and  one,  dashing  in  at  the  deep  tower  door, 
drove  Jessica  several  steps  up  the  stairway. 

A  minute  or  two  more  and  Hughes  should 
be  back.  But  Hughes  and  Mrs.  Murney 
had  reached  the  restaurant  in  a  drenched 
condition;  and  the  party  all  joined  in  telling 
him  that  it  would  be  simple  folly  to  go  out 
again  until  this  passionate  downpour  was 
over. 

"It  will  slacken  in  a  minute  or  two,"  said 
Mrs.  Drake  confidently.  "Then  you  can 
all  go." 

"I  knew  of  a  young  man  in  Buda-Pesth 
[84] 


THE  LADY  FROM  MAINE 

•4  i  K 

once,"  said  the  lady  from  Maine,  "who  got 
wet  in  a  rain,  caught  pneumonia  and  died." 

But  Hughes  was  for  going.  He  did  not 
mind  a  little  rain. 

"You  shouldna'  restrain  an  eager  young 
man  wi'  his  lady-love  imprisoned  in  a  castle 
tower,"  said  the  Scotchman,  smiling  know- 
ingly all  round. 

That  decided  it.  "Waters  cannot  quench 
love,"  but  scoffing  can  make  it  ashamed  to 
be  known.  So  Hughes  awaited  with  a 
calm  mien  but  an  impatient  soul  for  the 
"slackening"  of  a  rain  that  beat  down  the 
harder  with  every  minute.  It  surely  must 
soon  exhaust  itself. 

Once  Jessica  ventured  down  to  the  gusty 
door  to  see  if  he  were  coming;  but  she  saw 
only  a  gray  church  shouldering  up  out  of 
sight  in  a  tempest  of  tumbling  rain.  Then 
the  deluge  swept  in  at  the  door  and  she  ran, 
with  wetted  face  and  spotted  dress,  up  to  the 
first  diy  turn  in  the  stairway  again. 

Some  one  spoke  to  her  in  German  from 
behind,  and  she  turned  and  saw  that  it  was 
the  young  girl  who  acted  as  guide.  She 
[85] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


plainly  wanted  her  to  do  something;  and 
finally  Jessica  made  out  that  it  was  to  go  up 
into  the  first  room  and  wait,  as  she  (the 
guide)  must  shut  the  tower  door  against  the 
storm.  Jessica  tried  to  explain  that  she  ex- 
pected the  others  back,  but  the  girl  appar- 
ently said  that  she  would  let  them  in  when 
they  came ;  for  she  went  down  and  shut  and 
locked  the  door. 

Jessica  stood  in  the  half-light  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  thought  that  she  might  as 
well  see  the  first  apartments  upstairs  at  her 
leisure.  So  she  climbed  the  winding  stair, 
grim  in  its  nakedness  of  heavy  stone,  and 
passed  into  the  great  hall.  She  saw  the 
massive  columns  from  which  the  vaulting 
sprang;  the  dim  reaches  between  them 
peopled  with  dark,  stiff  old  portraits;  the 
great  windows  fronting  the  black  north! 

And  at  one  of  them  stood  Herr  Werner, 
motionless,  watching  the  raging  of  the 
storm. 


[86] 


CHAPTER    VIII 

1* 
In  the  Scliloss 

JESSICA  stopped  instantly  and  would  have 
turned  back,  but  at  that  moment  the  girl, 
coming  up  behind  her,  said  something  about 
"Fraulein"  in  that  high,  carrying  voice  tour- 
ist guides  cultivate;  at  which  Herr  Werner 
turned  sharply  away  from  the  window  and 
saw  her,  hesitant,  at  the  doorway.  This  cut 
off  all  possible  retreat ;  for  to  turn  back  now 
to  the  dark  and  comfortless  turret  would  be 
to  confess  to  a  fear  of  him.  So  she  walked 
across  the  shadowed,  echoing  hall  to  a  win- 
dow at  the  other  end,  quite  away  from  the 
silent  German.  Herr  Werner  watched  her 
until  she  reached  her  window,  but  neither 
spoke.  Then  he  asked  something  of  the 
girl  in  a  growling  German,  and  got  quite  a 
lengthy  answer,  to  which  he  said  "  'Zo!' 
in  mild  surprise,  and  turned  again  to  the 
wild  scene  outside.  Jessica  had  noticed, 

[87] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


however,  when  he  looked  at  her  first  that  his 
face  was  alight  with  that  rare,  inborn  glow, 
which  shone  from  it  in  his  moments  of  ear- 
nestness and  exaltation;  and  she  wondered 
a  little  at  it,  for  certainly  there  could  be 
nothing  more  annoying  than  this  inoppor- 
tune thunder-storm. 

She  leaned  upon  the  wide  window-sill, 
and  looked  out  upon  the  black,  wind-harried 
prospect.  It  did  not  look  like  stopping,  did 
it !  she  said  to  herself,  unconsciously  copying 
the  Hughes  form  of  assertion.  The  upper 
sky  was  a  billowing  sea  of  ink,  across  which 
scudded  torn  fragments  of  cloud,  like  the 
tattered  battle-flags  of  a  flying  army. 
This  she  would  see ;  and  then  the  rain  would 
thicken  before  her  eyes,  and  all  become  a 
dark  steel-gray.  Swirl  and  dash — and  it 
was  beating  on  the  window-glass;  and  then 
the  charge  would  pass,  and  the  round,  gray- 
stone  tower  that  shouldered  out  just  beyond 
her  window  dripped  and  ran  with  the  bro- 
ken columns  of  the  rain.  Right  down  the 
steep  cliff  that  fell  away  almost  sheer  from 
the  foundations  of  the  castle,  the  wide  tops 
[88] 


IN     THE     SCHLOSS 


of  the  precariously  rooted  trees  bent  to  the 
wind,  and  then  fought  sturdily  back  when 
its  pressure  lessened.  At  intervals  the  rain 
seemed  to  pass,  and  a  wide  prospect  opened 
out;  far  across  the  narrow  river  at  the  foot 
of  the  cliff  and  the  hamlet-dotted  country, 
to  a  watery  horizon,  banded  with  a  murky 
yellow. 

At  the  first  of  these  pauses,  Jessica 
thought  of  Hughes,  and  turned  to  hear  if 
he  were  not  coming  up  the  turret-steps. 
But  there  was  nothing  behind  her  save  the 
empty  twi-lit  hall.  The  dark  old  portraits 
of  dead  and  gone  Saxon  kings  looked  stol- 
idly, indistinctly,  out  from  the  walls;  the 
heavy  columns  and  the  rich  wooden  vaulting 
they  supported  showed  in  dim  aloofness 
from  all  human  interest.  What  cared  they 
whether  Hughes  came  or  stayed,  or  that  a 
maiden  shrank,  half -fearful  in  her  loneliness, 
by  one  of  the  great  windows,  or  that  the 
Prince  of  the  Power  of  the  Air  marshalled 
his  black  cavalry  against  the  storm-scarred 
outer  battlements?  In  her  instinctive  turn- 
ing to  human  companionship,  she  glanced 
[89] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


quickly  to  where  Herr  Werner  had  been 
standing,  and  there  he  was  still,  leaning 
motionless  on  his  window-sill,  unconscious  of 
everything  but  the  sweep  of  the  storm. 
Over  him  on  a  side  wall  was  a  fresco,  which 
the  poor  light  would  not  quite  unveil;  but 
as  she  looked  at  it  in  idle  fascination,  there 
came  out  of  the  dull  colouring  figures  in  ar- 
mour, then  faces  of  iron  determination.  A 
flicker  of  lightning  played  over  it,  and  she 
saw  a  woman  kneeling — and  was  it  a  child 
held  high  on  a  mailed  arm?  Ah!  those  were 
savage  days !  And  this  old  schloss  on  its  in- 
accessible crag  had  seen  its  share  of  them. 
The  familiar  rain  outside  was  kindlier  far. 
So  she  leaned  again  on  the  window-sill, 
watching  the  high-riding  clouds,  starting  in- 
stinctively back  at  the  sudden  charges  of  the 
rain-laden  wind  and  dazzled  by  the  swift 
lances  of  the  lightning  thrust  out  from  the 
bosom  of  the  storm. 

But,  as  she  watched,  her  heart  grew  sen- 
sibly greater  within  her,  and  her  spirits  rose 
to  meet  the  onslaughts  of  the  tempest.     She 
listened  for  Hughes  in  the  pauses,  but  there 
[90] 


IN     THE     SCHLOSS 


was  less  and  less  anxiety  for  his  coming  as 
the  minutes  went  by.  The  feeling  of  ner- 
vous loneliness  was  passing  from  her,  and 
she  began  to  partake  somewhat  of  the  sturdy 
spirit  of  the  schloss  itself,  lifting  its  towers 
to  meet  the  fury  of  the  attack.  Let  the 
gusts  dash  at  the  window!  She  straight- 
ened herself  and  faced  them.  "I  am  get- 
ting brave,"  she  said  to  herself;  "what  has 
come  over  me?"  The  rain  rushed  at  the 
massive  tower  near  her  window,  and  for  a 
moment  she  could  not  see  it;  then  it  swept 
on  and  she  looked  eagerly  out,  and  the  tower 
stood  grimly  unmoved,  while  the  bleeding 
remnants  of  the  assault  dripped  from  its 
rough  stones.  She  could  have  cheered  in 
her  sense  of  personal  victory.  Surely  Herr 
Werner  saw  it,  and  she  looked  toward  him; 
but  he  was  motionless  at  his  window.  Well, 
she  was  not  alone,  for  the  Saxon  kings  gazed 
triumphantly  at  her  from  their  walls,  and 
she  knew  that  they  all  rejoiced  in  the  im- 
pregnability of  their  common  fortress. 

Grim  days  were  they,  when  men  in  armour 
clanked  through  this  great  hall  and  clustered 
[91] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


on  the  upper  battlements!  Yes,  truly;  but 
great  days,  too,  when  it  was  man  to  man, 
when  danger  rode  at  one  from  every  corner, 
when  a  woman  was  deemed  worth  dying  for, 
and  when  there  were  many  things  that  a 
knight  feared  more  than  to  die. 

Then,  in  a  flash,  it  came  upon  her  that 
this  feeling  was  the  soaring,  all-seeing  con- 
sciousness which  rose  in  her  in  mid-song — 
which  Herr  Werner's  playing  had  called 
up;  and  for  one  mad  moment  she  battled 
against  it  as  a  mind  fights  for  sanity.  But 
the  wild  wind  at  the  great  window,  the  dim 
reaches  of  the  ancient  hall,  the  spirit  of  the 
hour  and  place  fought  against  her,  and  she 
slowly,  half  fearful,  wholly  glad,  let  her 
eyes  rest  again  on  "the  vision  and  the 
dream." 

Surely  that  was  a  step  on  the  turret  stair? 
She  turned — apprehensively.  Could  it  be 
Hughes  with  his  ever-ready  amusement  at 
enthusiasm?  He  would  be  very  wet  and 
very  caustic,  and  very  quick  to  make  light 
of  these  quaintly  decorated  rooms  with  their 
shadowy  memories.  The  step  came  to  the 
[92] 


IN     THE     SCHLOSS 


door — and  it  was  the  German  girl.  Jessica 
laughed  softly  at  herself.  So  she  did  not 
want  Hughes  now?  Yet  she  could  see  a 
Jessica  Murney  who  would  have  thought 
his  witticisms  very  funny,  and  these  dark- 
panelled  walls  and  stiff  portraits  very  poky 
and  ridiculous.  But  that  was  an  unworthy 
Jessica,  she  decided;  a  silly  school-girl. 
And  how  fortunate  she  was  to  stand  in  this 
great  hall  alone  without  the  others — the 
peering,  questioning,  itemizing,  matter-of- 
fact  others,  who  never  saw  the  spirit  of  a 
thing,  so  busy  were  they  checking  off  the 
thing  itself  in  their  guide-books.  All 
thought  of  loneliness  or  fear  had  now  left 
her,  and  presently  she  ventured  back  into  the 
great  hall,  gradually  growing  lighter  with 
the  lessening  of  the  storm,  and  walked  from 
portrait  to  historic  fresco  and  from  fresco  to 
portrait,  living  in  the  spirit  of  the  mediaeval 
time  when  it  was  the  doing  of  things  that 
counted  and  not  the  talking  of  them.  Be- 
fore one  fresco  she  stood  quite  a  while, 
hardly  catching  its  meaning. 

"Do  you  know  the  story?"  asked  Herr 
[93] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


Werner  at  her  shoulder.  She  had  not 
known  that  he  had  come  up;  but  she  said 
quite  frankly,  forgetting  all  her  antipathy 
to  the  German:— 

"No!  what  is  it?" 

Then  he  told  her  a  tale  of  plotting,  of 
scaled  battlements,  of  stolen  princes  and  of 
peasant  courage,  that  stirred  her  blood  as 
always  must  a  bit  of  plumed  romance  made 
real  by  saying  "and  there  is  where  he 
climbed,"  and  "here  is  where  he  dared 
death." 

"How  splendid!"  she  cried,  looking  up 
at  him  with  shining  eyes.  "Ah!  those  were 
the  days,  Herr  Werner,  when  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  manner  for  the  man." 

"Yes!  yes!"  he  agreed  heartily;  but  there 
was  wondering  surprise  in  the  look  he 
turned  on  her. 

"How  full  this  old  schloss  is  of  the  spirit 
of  that  time!"  she  went  on,  half  dreamily. 
"I  have  been  standing  at  the  window 
watching  it  battle  with  the  storm;  and  it 
fought  like  a  true  knight,  relying  on  itself 
and  never  asking  quarter." 
[94] 


IN     THE     SCHLOSS 


"Good!  and  you  saw  it!"  cried  Herr 
Werner.  "The  songstress  has  come  to  life 
then!" 

Jessica  looked  at  him  with  understanding 
eyes.  A  sub-consciousness  told  her  that  she 
should  be  very  much  offended  at  his  frank 
outburst,  but  she  knew  that  she  was  not. 

"Ah!  then  come  and  I  will  show  you  this 
schloss,  for  you  will  see  it,"  the  German 
went  on,  his  face  shining  joyously  upon  her. 
He  turned  to  lead  her  to  the  lower  end  of 
the  hall,  but  stopped  in  a  moment  and,  bend- 
ing towards  her,  added  in  a  half  whisper — 

"Most  people  come  and  look  and  nod  and 
rush  on  to  another  room,  and  look  and  nod  and 
hurry  away;  but  they  see  nothing — nothing. 
Mrs.  Drake — would  you  believe  it? — she 
stood  in  this  hall.  'Portraits,'  she  said. 
'Let  me  see!  One-two-d'ree-four-funf-six- 
and  so  on  to  eleven,'  '  pushing  his  finger 
pudgily  at  each  one  as  he  counted.  'But 
my  guide  says  there  are  twelve,'  she  com- 
plained. And  then  'Herr  Werner,  Herr 
Werner!  Please  ask  the  Fraulein  to  show 
us  the  twelve  portraits.'  I  asked  the  Frau- 
[95] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


lein,  and  she  told  us  that  one  had  been  re- 
moved. I  tell  Mrs.  Drake.  'All  right,'  she 
said.  'What  room  comes  next?'  and  off 
she  went.  I  stayed  here."  And  he  waved 
his  arms  as  if  banishing  all  such  folk,  and 
strode  off  down  the  hall  with  Jessica — a 
wide-eyed,  eager  Jessica — at  his  side. 

If  ever  a  man  was  made  to  tell  a  legend 
as  if  it  were  very  truth,  and  to  breathe  into 
rugged  history — history  of  the  mailed  hand, 
the  dagger  and  the  dungeon — the  pervading 
soul  of  reality,  that  man  was  Herr  Werner. 
Six  feet,  erect,  a  face  that  out-talked  his 
tongue  and  kept  pace  with  his  eyes,  eyes  of 
a  sincere  blue  and  a  flaming  earnestness,  the 
hands  of  an  emotional  actor,  and  a  perfect 
genius  for  "posing"  unconsciously  as  the 
central  figure  of  his  story,  he  led  Jessica 
from  place  to  place  in  the  great  Hall,  and 
then  from  room  to  room  in  the  rambling 
schloss,  telling  her  thrilling  tales  of  Saxon 
daring  and  of  old-time  cruelty  and  super- 
stition, and  the  deeds  of  a  might  that 
thought  itself  the  only  right.  Together  they 
measured  the  thick,  grim  walls,  and  marvel- 
[96] 


IN     THE     SCHLOSS 


led  at  their  strength;  and  studied  the  old 
portraits  with  their  heavy  armour  and  hardly 
less  heavy  robes  of  office;  and  re-peopled 
the  old  rooms  with  the  court  ladies  and  their 
cavaliers;  and  talked  of  the  days  when  men 
played  the  game  of  life  with  the  highest 
stake  always  on  the  table,  not  having  syn- 
dicated their  courage  nor  entrusted  their 
safe-keeping  and  their  lady's  honor  to  the 
police. 

"That  is  the  one  priceless  inheritance  you 
European  peoples  have,"  said  Jessica;  "the 
one  thing  we  can  never  take  nor  buy  from 
you,  the  tangible  homes  of  these  mediaeval 
memories." 

"They  are  the  inspiration  of  what  is  best 
in  us,"  answered  Herr  Werner.  "Our  poe- 
try, our  art,  our  high  thinking.  But  they 
have  a  new  foe,  a  foe  that,  perhaps,  you 
have  brought  them — the  spirit  of  commer- 
cialism." 

"The  Midas  touch,"  breathed  Jessica. 

"Yes — though  I  should  rather  call  it  'the 
Judas  kiss,'  "  said  Herr  Werner.  "It  is  that 
that  I  fear.  Commercialism  is  very  kind 

[97] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


to  these  old  piles.  It  embraces  them,  it  re- 
stores them,  it  flatters  them,  it  advertises 
them  like — like  a  new  soap ;  and  all  the  world 
comes  rushing  to  pay  its  entrance  fees  and 
buy  its  cheap  pictures,  and  tramp  through 
their  most  sacred  places  with  ignorant  ques- 
tions and  blind  eyes,  hurrying  from  a  por- 
celain factory  to  a  schloss,  and  from  a  schloss 
to  a  beer  garden,  so  as  to  get  in  a  full  day." 
And  the  blonde  head  was  shaken  in  disgust. 

Jessica  was  silent;  for  she  saw  that  other 
Jessica  who  looked  so  like  her,  but  who  was 
of  a  spirit  so  dull-sighted,  so  heavy-footed, 
hurrying — sightless — to  see  the  sights  with 
all  the  world. 

"And  with  the  tramp  of  their  crowding 
feet  they  frighten  the  familiar  spirits  of 
these  sacred  places  away,"  went  on  Herr 
Werner.  "Formerly  only  those  came  here 
who  had  eyes  to  see — whose  hearts  had  at 
these  shrines  worshipped  for  long,  long 
years.  They  as  pilgrims  came — reverent, 
seeking,  seeing.  They  came  alone;  and  in 
the  hush  of  a  sanctuary  from  which  all  mod- 
ern life  was  shut  out,  they  communed  with 
[98]" 


IN     THE     SCHLOSS 


the  mightiest  of  the  past ;  and  then  they  went 
out  to  write  an  immortal  poem  or  paint  a 
deathless  picture  or  do  a  splendid  deed." 

"And  now,"  said  Jessica,  with  bowed 
head,  "we  come  in  droves  for  no  higher  pur- 
pose than  that  no  one  shall  have  seen  more 
than  we." 

"But,"  protested  Herr  •  Werner,  "you 
must  not  say  'we.'  That  was  yesterday.  To- 
day you  may  say  'I,'  for  you  have  become 
an  individual — you  dare  your  own  life  bo 
live — you  are  at  last  the  woman  who  sings 
with  your  wonderful  voice." 

"Am  I,  do  you  think?"  said  Jessica,  hum- 
bly, looking  up  at  him  with  clear  eyes,  from 
which  she  tried  to  throw  back  the  last  maiden 
curtain  that  he  might  see  and  judge  her 
truly — for  in  that  brief  afternoon  Jessica 
had  recognized  in  Herr  Werner  blood-kin 
to  her  better  self. 

"Ah! — yes! — yes!"  he  answered  slowly, 
his  whole  face  deadly  earnest  with  his  read- 
ing of  her.  "It  is  a  great  thing  to  say,"  he 
went  on,  "for  the  woman  who  sings  in  you 
is  one  of  the  queens  of  earth;  but,  on  my 
[99] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


soul,  I  think  you  are  she — and  to  know  you," 
he  added  in  a  lower  voice,  "is  to  me  a  great 
happiness." 

Jessica  slowly  lowered  her  eyes,  thought- 
ful and  content.  Then  a  long  sigh  rose  on 
her  breath. 

"What  a  wide,  beautiful  world  it  is,"  she 
said,  half  to  herself,  "when  the  clouds  have 
lifted." 

Then,  prompted  by  her  simile,  they  both 
turned  to  look  out  of  the  window,  and  they 
saw  that  the  clouds  were  really  lifting  and 
that  all  the  north  was  streaked  with  blue; 
but  they  did  not  know  that  three  times  had 
Hughes  walked  over  through  the  drenching 
rain  and  beaten  with  furious  fists  on  the  low- 
er door,  and  that  nothing  but  his  perpetual 
fear  of  being  absurd  had  kept  him  from  sum- 
moning the  police  to  have  the  lock  forced. 


[100] 


CHAPTER    IX 

1- 
"The  Itemizing  Others" 

Now.,  however,  that  the  rain  had  stopped, 
the  whole  party  came  clamouring  to  the 
lower  door  which  the  gentle  German  girl, 
who  seemed  to  have  charge  of  the  schloss, 
had  already  opened. 

"Hurry  and  find  out  if  your  daughter  is 
all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Drake  to  Mrs.  Murney; 
"for  we  want  to  do  the  cathedral  while  you 
are  in  the  schloss.  I'm  very  much  afraid 
you  won't  have  time  for  the  cathedral  now," 
she  added,  conscious  of  her  own  virtue  in 
having  reaped  the  schloss  while  the  sun 
shone. 

Mrs.  Murney  hurried  up  the  winding 
stair,  calling  "Jessica"  at  every  turn,  until 
breathless  she  burst  into  the  great  hall. 
There  stood  Jessica,  unfrightened,  with 
Herr  Werner,  serious-faced,  at  her  side. 

"Why,  Mamma!"  said  Jessica,  stepping 
[101] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


forward  solicitously.  "Why  did  you  hurry 
so?" 

"Why,"  gasped  Mrs.  Murney,  "I  was  so 
uneasy  about  you." 

Jessica  smiled  in  loving,  mock-indulgence 
at  her  mother.  "You  shouldn't  have  been," 
she  said.  "It  has  been  magnificent,  garri- 
soning this  old  schloss  against  the  storm." 

Mrs.  Murney  looked  up  in  surprise  at  the 
sentiment — it  was  hardly  like  Jessica;  and 
it  was  not  without  apprehension  that  she  saw 
the  unusual  light  on  her  face.  Then  the 
lady  from  Maine  walked  through  the  door 
and  glanced  about  with  a  friendly  smile. 

"Family  re-union,"  she  remarked.  "Hope 
I  don't  intrude.  Weren't  you  very  fright- 
ened, Miss  Murney,  in  this  big,  big  schloss 
all  alone?" 

"No,"  said  Jessica,  politely.  "Then  I 
was  not  alone." 

"Oh,  of  course,  Herr  Werner  was  here;" 
and  one  could  tell  from  her  face  that  she 
thought  there  was  something  queer  about 
that.  "Once  when  I  was  at  Monaco,"  she 
began,  "a  rain  came  up  and  our  party  got 
[102] 


"THE  ITEMIZING  OTHERS" 

separated—  But  the  Scotchman  just  then 
helped  his  wife  through  the  door  with — "A 
step  there,  my  dear!  Ah!  the  lost  lamb  is 
found."  And  then  in  a  stage  whisper,  "Mr. 
Hughes  will  be  at  peace  now,  and  can  go 
and  dry  himself."  Jessica  looked  up  at  this 
in  quick  remembrance;  but  was  it  alarm  or 
sympathy  on  her  face? 

Then  came  the  English  lady,  and  behind 
her  a  well-wetted  but  wholly  unperturbed 
Hughes.  His  hat  was  a  soggy  mass  with 
an  uneven  brim,  his  clothes  clung  damply 
about  him;  but  he  bore  himself  as  if  neither 
of  these  circumstances  were  known  to  him. 
His  first  glance  was  for  Jessica,  and  his 
second  for  the  Scotchman.  Plainly  he  sus- 
pected the  merry  twinkle  of  the  Scot's  blue 
eye.  Then  he  patiently  waited  his  chance 
to  speak  to  Jessica  in  a  perfect  panoply  of 
good  breeding. 

"My  wife  wishes  to  know  if  Miss  Murney 

is  all  right,"  asked  an  uninterested  voice  from 

the  doorway.     Then,  without  waiting  for  an 

answer,  it  went  on — "Ah!  yes,  thank  you,  I 

[103] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


see  she  is;"  and  Mr.  Drake  turned  carefully 
about,  and  heavily  descended  the  stairway. 

"You  must  act  as  guide  now,  and  do  what 
I  did  for  you  at  the  porcelain  works,"  said 
the  lady  from  Maine  to  Jessica. 

"There  is  a  guide,"  observed  Herr  Wer- 
ner, indicating  the  German  girl. 

"Does  she  speak  English?" 

"No,  German." 

"Well,  I  can't  understand  German,"  con- 
cluded the  lady  from  Maine  emphatically. 

"She  will  not  anyway  understand  if  you 
tell  her  what  you  yourself  see,"  Herr  Wer- 
ner growled  in  low  tones  to  Jessica,  ap- 
proaching in  his  disgust  the  German  con- 
struction. 

But  Jessica  was  not  so  pessimistic,  and  be- 
gan to  tell  them  something  of  the  history  of 
the  dark-vaulted  hall  in  which  they  were. 
They  stood  at  polite  attention,  and  looked 
with  smiling  interest  where  she  told  them  to 
look.  "What  did  you  say  his  name  was?" 
the  lady  from  Maine  would  ask  occasionally ; 
and,  at  the  end  of  each  incident,  the  Scotch- 
man's wife  would  add,  "Very  sweet,  I'm 
[104] 


sure,"  or  "How  very  brave,"  or  something 
of  that  sort;  while  the  English  lady  always 
came  in  with  "How  very  interesting!"  in  a 
listless  voice. 

But  Jessica  kept  on.  She  would  have 
liked  telling  over  these  old-time  new-found 
tales,  even  if  there  had  been  no  one  to  listen 
save  the  portraits  of  the  men  of  whose  deeds 
they  were  the  record.  And  three  pairs  of 
eyes,  at  least,  watched  her  with  unflagging 
interest.  To  her  mother,  this  Jessica  was  by 
no  means  a  stranger,  but  she  ought  to  have 
been  singing,  not  talking.  To  Herr  Wer- 
ner she  was  the  serene  genius  of  the  past, 
come  to  live  in  a  modern  maiden,  who  was 
the  veiy  flower  of  the  latest  people  of  the 
new  time.  To  Hughes,  she  was  the  Jessica 
he  knew,  but  somehow  lifted  out  of  his  reach 
by  her  own  abstraction.  It  was  as  if  she 
were  high  on  the  wings  of  one  of  her  foreign, 
incomprehensible  songs — songs  whose  chief 
merit  was  to  be  "difficult."  He  must  wait 
until  the  music  had  ceased  and  the  flush  of 
excitement  had  passed,  and  they  were  keep- 
ing step  together  again  on  the  home-bound 
[105] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


pavement.  He  did  not  quite  fancy  her,  he 
told  himself,  in  this  new  role.  Still  she  was 
a  picture  as  she  stood,  sometimes  in  a  grim, 
gray  archway,  sometimes  framed  by  a  soar- 
ing window;  and  she  had  about  her  a  new 
grace  of  unconsciousness.  But  she  really 
knew  so  little  of  this  musty  past  of  which  she 
talked  so  seriously  that  she  turned  contin- 
ually to  that  "moony  Werner"  for  prompt- 
ing. He  liked  her  better  when  she  was  laugh- 
ing with  him  at  this  whole  Werneresque  na- 
tion. 

How  long  the  politeness  of  the  rest  of  the 
party  would  have  endured  the  recital  of 
events  connected  with  names  not  mentioned 
by  Baedeker,  was  not  put  to  the  final  test — 
though  there  were  signs  of  budding  impa- 
tience ;  for  when  they  were  in  one  of  the  up- 
per rooms,  seeing  where  somebody  of  no  im- 
portance had  done  something  of  a  disorderly 
and  unlawful  nature,  Mrs.  Drake  came  to 
their  rescue  with  the  announcement  that  her 
party  had  "finished"  the  church,  and  that  it 
was  time  to  go. 

"But,"  broke  in  the  lady  from  Maine,  "I 
[106] 


"THE  ITEMIZING  OTHERS" 

haven't  had  a  chance  yet  to  tell  you  how 
Bottger  discovered  how  to  make  porcelain 
in  that  room  across  there,  and  how  the  king 
came  to  see  him  in  his  laboratory,  and— 

"There!"  said  Mrs.  Drake,  following  the 
Maine  lady's  indicative  finger  with  her 
eye.  "We  were  in  there  this  morning,  and 
I  presume  the  girl  told  us  all  about  it, 
though  I  don't  understand  a  word  of  Ger- 
man." 

"Well,  our  guide  hasn't  taken  us  there 
yet,"  sniffed  the  lady  from  Maine,  glancing 
at  Jessica  lest  any  one  should  mistake  whom 
she  meant.  She  was  as  romantic  as  any- 
body, and  just  loved  knights  and  midnight 
raids,  and — but  porcelain  was  serious  busi- 
ness, and  should  have  been  attended  to  first. 

"I  did  not  know  of  it,"  said  Jessica,  a  lit- 
tle blankly — she  had  thought  she  knew  so 
much  about  this  schloss. 

"It  matters  nothing,"  declared  Herr 
Werner  harshly,  and  with  an  angry  frown 
on  his  brow.  "It  is  not  as  a  factory  that 
this  schloss  is  famous." 

[107] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"A  factory!"  exclaimed  the  lady  from 
Maine.  "This  was  a  great  scientific  discov- 
ery." 

"It  was  the  recovery  of  a  trade  secret,  that 
was  all,"  said  Herr  Werner.  "Science  was 
merely  picking  up  a  workman's  tool  for  him 
again." 

"And  science  could  not  be  better  em- 
ployed," put  in  Mr.  Hughes. 

"Well,  well!"  exploded  Mrs.  Drake,  im- 
patiently. "Here's  the  room!  Look  at  it 
and  come,  or  we  shall  miss  our  train.  We 
want  to  get  back  in  time  to  do  the  Briihl  Ter- 
race to-night." 

So  they  filed  into  the  room  and  filed  out 
again,  the  lady  from  Maine  murmuring  loose 
scraps  of  information  relative  to  Bottger 
and  his  discovery  as  they  went;  and  then 
made  their  way  to  the  great  hall  and  the 
stair  tower.  Hughes  walked  with  Jessica, 
but  he  seemed  out  of  mental  range  of  her. 

"Queer  old  place!"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  did  not  see  him 
and  answered — 

"I  think  it  is  bewitched." 
[108] 


"THE  ITEMIZING  OTHERS" 

"It,  or  you?"  he  asked,  laughing. 

Now  her  eyes  appeared  to  see  him. 
"Both,"  she  said,  seriously. 

He  sobered,  too,  and  glanced  uneasily  at 
her. 

They  were  the  last  to  enter  the  tower.  Be- 
fore stepping  through  the  heavy  doorway, 
she  stood  quite  a  time  looking  back  at  the 
hall,  with  its  wide-spaced  emptiness. 

"Farewell,"  she  said  at  last,  slowly — "or 
perhaps  it  is  'auf  wiedersehen/ ' 

Mr.  Hughes  looked  at  the  doorway  arch 
critically.  He  thought  it  best  to  keep  his 
eyes  busy  lest  they  should  be  garrulous. 


[109] 


CHAPTER  X 


The  New  Jessica 

THE  next  morning  Herr  Vogt  was  a 
happy  man.  The  wonderful  Miss  Murney 
sang  as  she  had  never  sung  before,  and  she, 
herself,  was  a  part  of  the  song.  Would  she 
come  some  night  to  his  house,  and  sing  to  his 
friends?  He  had  told  them  so  much  of  her 
never-had-they-heard-the-like-of  voice,  and 
now  he  was  ready  to  have  them  hear  it  for 
themselves. 

Jessica  gave  a  gasp  of  pleased  surprise  — 
and  yet,  was  she  surprised?  Did  not  all 
things  seem  possible  since  —  since  yesterday? 
But  this  was  the  great  Herr  Vogt  who  was 
asking  her  from  among  all  his  pupils  to 
come  to  his  very  house  and  appear  before  his 
friends  as  a  choice  product  of  his  teaching. 
Mrs.  Murney  beamed  Upon  him,  and  was  the 
first  to  say  that  Jessica  would  be  very 
[110] 


THE  NEW  JESSICA 


pleased  to  come.  Jessica  had  let  that  be 
taken  for  granted. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "we  will  one  great  night 
haf.  I  will  ask — and — and—  and  he 
named  many  of  the  first  in  musical  Dres- 
den. "And  they  will  come  if  they  possibly 
are  able,  for  they  are  eager — they  on  the  tip- 
top-toe stand  to  hear  you." 

And  when  the  night  came,  Jessica  went 
and  sang  in  his  large  drawing-room,  while 
round  spectacles  shone  at  her  in  groups,  and 
round  Germans  filled  the  air  with  happy 
ejaculations  when  she  had  finished.  Herr 
Vogt  coaxed  her  to  sing  oftener  than  they 
had  planned ;  and  then  he  would  sit  and  play 
and  sing  himself,  and  the  high  pleasure  he 
had  in  her  success  bubbled  over  on  the  swell- 
ing tide  of  his  own  music.  Then  they  all 
talked  of  what  she  would  do.  She  could  go 
back  to  New  York  and  her  country  people 
astound — she  would  a  great  opera  star  be, 
and  rivers  of  gold  would  themselves  at  her 
feet  pour  out.  One  man — an  authority — 
with  bated  breath  and  many  a  qualifying 
phrase,  went  farther.  She  might,  he 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


thought,  possibly  stay  in  Dresden  and  be 
taken  on  the  Royal  Opera,  and  by  hard 
work  and  patient  training  get  eventually  to 
sing  one  of  the  leading  parts.  But  at  this, 
even  Herr  Vogt  shook  his  head.  It  was 
not  well  too  high  a  mark  for  the  young 
ambition  to  set. 

But  for  all  his  joy  Herr  Vogt  was  desolat- 
ed at  one  thought.  In  eight  days  he  would 
go  away  to  Lucerne  for  his  yearly  holiday, 
and  the  Murneys  were  not  sure  that  they 
could  await  his  tardy  return  to  Dresden. 
They  had  thought  to  get  away  sooner  even 
than  this.  Why  had  not  Miss  Murney 
discovered  herself  before? — he  groaned  to 
himself.  He  began  talking  of  giving  up 
his  holiday,  although  he  would  have  no  other 
pupil  in  Dresden,  having  dismissed  them  all 
that  he  might  be  free  to  go. 

"Why  could  Miss  Murney  to  Lucerne 
not  go,  isn't  it?"  asked  a  friend.  "It  is  one 
beautiful  place." 

The  very  thing!  Herr  Vogt  eagerly 
pressed  it.  He  knew  a  good  "pension" 
where  they  would  be  so  comfortable  and  see 
[112] 


THE  NEW  JESSICA 


so-not-to-be-equalled  a  view,  and  the  Mur- 
neys  were  quite  talked  into  it,  though  they 
only  promised  to  "see." 

On  the  way  home  Mrs.  Murney  decided 
what  part  of  New  York  they  would  live  in 
when  Jessica  was  singing  in  grand  opera 
there.  Jessica  said  little,  but  she  knew 
that  the  stars  were  bright,  and  that  away  on 
the  lonely  height  at  Meissen  the  grim  Saxon 
kings  looked  out  from  their  heavy  frames 
and  saw  these  same  stars — like  diamonds  on 
a  bed  of  dark  velvet — shining  through  the 
great  windows. 

What  Jessica  thought  of  herself  during 
this  time  would  be  hard  to  put  down,  though 
she  thought  of  little  else.  To  begin  with, 
she  seemed  to  be  doing  this  thinking  with 
some  one  else's  mind.  Its  point  of  view 
was  novel  to  her.  The  world  was  no  longer 
chiefly  a  joke,  with  relieving  intervals  here 
and  there  to  rest  your  face  muscles;  it  was 
not  even  a  great  playground  with  a  few 
necessary  attendants  about  to  keep  the  turf 
smooth  and  serve  refreshments.  Life,  on 
the  contrary,  seemed  to  be  part  of  a  purpose. 

["8] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


She  could  not  see  the  purpose  clearly,  for  the 
bulk  of  it  disappeared  beyond  the  limits  of 
her  horizon  everywhere — and  there  were 
blood-stains  on  it.  Look  where  she  would, 
and  that  life  that  had  been  a  joke  could  not 
be  found.  Built  into  the  "purpose"  were 
many,  many  lives,  but  they  were  serious, 
straining,  sometimes  sad. 

That  was  one  new  window  in  her  new 
mind.  Another  was  turned  toward  the 
beautiful,  and  on  its  broad  sill  she  lost  count 
of  time.  She  discovered,  for  instance,  the 
decorative  quality  in  early  Italian  paintings. 
Hitherto  they  had  been  stiff,  unnatural,  bad- 
ly drawn  and  consequently  failures  to  her; 
to-day  their  massed  colouring  and  careful 
grouping  made  them  panels  of  beauty.  Then 
her  songs — it  was  no  longer  a  wonder  to  her 
that  people  went  mad  when  she  sang;  she 
went  mad  herself.  And  those  who  did  not 
were  like  the  old  Jessica. 

The  old  Jessica!       Upon  her    this   new 

mind  dwelt  longest.     She  was  a  good  girl, 

a  happy  girl — but  she  was  blind.       Still, 

what  had  happened  to  her  that  day  at  Meis- 

[114] 


THE  NEW  JESSICA 


sen  ?  What  was  the  meaning  of  this  change 
that  had  come  on  occasions  before  but  had 
now  come  to  stay?  What  had  slain  the  old 
personality?  And  there  was  no  extracting 
the  disquietude  from  that  thought.  What 
was  insanity  but  believing  yourself  some- 
thing that  you  were  not?  But,  at  this  point, 
Jessica,  woman-like,  paused.  Eve  would 
never  have  ridden  out  of  Eden  on  logic. 
When  thinking  becomes  unprofitable, 
woman  falls  to  embroidering  her  fig-leaf. 

During  these  days  of  exaltation  Mr. 
Hughes  drew  himself  more  and  more  within 
his  racial  shell.  He  passed  from  simple  sur- 
prise to  smiling  wonder  and  at  last  threat- 
ened to  harden  into  stiff  disapproval.  It 
was  "amazing  the  way  Jessica  made  up  to 
that  boorish  German  fellow,"  he  thought 
within  himself.  And  Jessica  had  been  such 
a  sensible,  jolly  girl.  But  Jessica  did  not 
permit  him  to  withdraw  in  silence.  She 
talked  to  him  at  table  with  more  apparent 
determination  that  there  should  be  conversa- 
tion than  she  had  ever  shown  before.  But 
he  grew  less  and  less  responsive,  for  the  talk 
[115] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


had  a  nasty  trick  of  slipping  out  of  his  fin- 
gers into  those  of  Herr  Werner,  who  was 
always  ready  with  some  "moony"  sentiment 
or  imaginary  experience,  remotely  suggested 
by  the  topic,  with  which  to  attract  Jessica's 
attention.  He  had  great  faith,  however,  in 
the  sobering  effect  of  the  tennis  court,  and 
asked  her  several  times  to  come  and  play. 
But  the  first  day  she  had  something  to  read 
which  explained  the  legendary  origin  of  a 
song  she  was  to  sing  the  next  morning  to 
Herr  Vogt,  and  could  not  go;  and  another 
time  Herr  Werner  was  to  take  her  mother 
and  herself  to  see  something  historic  and 
ruinous  in  the  Saxon  Switzerland.  This 
stopped  the  invitations  for  a  while,  but  a 
few  days  after  Herr  Vogt  left  for  Lucerne, 
he  tried  again — a  last  cast — and  she  cheer- 
fully accepted. 

But  it  was  not  the  old  Jessica  who  swung 
her  tennis  racket  by  his  side  as  they  paced  up 
the  paths  of  the  Biirgerwiese  or  afterward 
strolled  in  the  Grosser  Garten.  Her  step 
had  the  same  light  spring,  she  carried  herself 
with  the  familiar  buoyancy  and  easy  vital- 
[  116  ]  ' 


THE  NEW  JESSICA 


ity,  but  she  was  serious  now  where  once  she 
had  been  playful.  She  would  barely  smile 
at  his  dry  joking,  but  was  always  challeng- 
ing him  to  see  "the  march  of  a  conquering 
army"  in  the  up-and-down  walk  of  a 
German  officer,  or  "the  straining  of  a  peas- 
ant people  after  the  warm  beauty  of  colour" 
in  the  outlandish  costume  of  a  perspiring 
nurse-maid,  or  some  other  fanciful  thing 
which  was  not  there  to  be  seen. 

That  night  at  dinner,  Herr  Werner  said— 

"The  wings  of  your  mind  are  tired  to- 
night. What  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Playing  tennis." 

"Ach!  What  an  animal  waste  of  the 
force  of  life!" 

"I  am  afraid  it  is,"  and  Jessica  sighed — 
though  not  so  much  colour  had  massed  on 
her  full  cheek  for  many  an  evening. 

Mr.  Hughes  looked  as  if  hearing  were 
a  sense  that  had  been  denied  him;  but  the 
next  morning  he  left  for  a  walking  tour 
through  the  Saxon  Switzerland. 

Two  days  later  the  Murneys  went  to  Lu- 

[117] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


cerne,  the  lady  from  Maine  having  given 
them  one  hotel  and  two  "pensions"  to  choose 
from  in  case  they  did  not  like  Herr  Vogt's 
selection.  Herr  Werner  left,  too,  to  visit  his 
people  on  the  borders  of  Poland. 


[118] 


CHAPTER  XI 


Lucerne 

THE  journey  from  Dresden  to  Lucerne, 
taken  at  one  leap,  is  long  and  wearisome,  and 
they  were  two  tired  ladies  who  trailed,  heavy- 
footed,  over  to  a  hotel  near  the  station  to 
spend  the  night,  postponing  the  search  for  a 
"pension"  until  the  morning.  In  the  morn- 
ing it  was  foggy  and  raining;  the  heavy 
cabs  splashed  and  scraped  along  slimy 
streets  ;  the  waters  of  the  lake  lay  silver-gray 
and  dead  under  the  gliding  mists;  not  a 
mountain  —  not  even  the  neighboring  Giitsch 
—  was  to  be  seen.  But,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Murneys,  hotel  bills  were  still  things  to 
avoid  in  spite  of  their  golden  dreams  for  the 
future;  so  they  dressed  for  the  weather,  and 
set  out.  But  it  was  a  dismal  business.  This 
"pension"  was  full;  that  —  Herr  Vogt's 
recommendation  —  was  too  expensive;  an- 
other —  with  a  rude  stare  —  did  not  take 
[119] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


ladies;  still  another,  far,  far  down  a  splashy 
road,  had  only  a  dark  room  on  a  cellar-like 
court,  and  there  was  an  odour  of  stale  cab- 
bage in  the  front  hall. 

How  different  it  all  was  from  the  spick 
and  span,  cheerful,  homelike  "Pension"  Liit- 
tichau ! 

Finally  they  were  semi-satisfied,  however, 
on  a  side  street,  not  far  from  Thorwaldsen's 
"Lion,"  where  they  were  "convenient  to  all 
the  sights,"  as  the  landlady  told  them  in  au- 
tomaton English.  This  gave  them  a  mo- 
mentary fillip  of  encouragement,  but  the 
rain  still  streaked  steadily  down  and  Jessica 
had  to  walk  back  through  it  to  get  their 
trunks.  This  was  even  harder  than  she  had 
anticipated,  for  she  called  a  "cabby"  who 
knew  no  English  and  could  not  understand 
her  German. 

"Now,  if  Herr  Werner  were  only  here," 
she  said  to  herself  ruefully;  and  then  nearly 
forgot  her  troubles  in  surprise  at  the  protest 
that  came  from  within  her  against  the  pres- 
ence of  the  romantic  German.  It  was  not 
"the  vision  and  the  dream"  she  wanted  with 
[120] 


LUCERNE 
•4  i  i 

this  rain  pattering  against  the  carriage  and 
on  the  emotionless  face  of  that  stolid,  stupid 
Swiss  "cabby,"  but  a  practical  man  who 
would  face  difficulties  with  so  perfect  a 
courage  that  he  would  not  even  admit  their 
existence — whose  sure  confidence  in  himself 
would  soon  infect  her  with  the  comfortable 
feeling  that  these  were  a  poor  and  pitiful 
people,  in  their  wilful  ignorance  of  English, 
and  their  perverse  knowledge  of  something 
far  less  worthy.  That  was  what  she  wanted 
— a  human  tonic  and  not  a  frothy  intoxicant, 
and  she  astonished  the  waiting  cabman  by 
laughing  blithely  to  herself  as  she  added 
mentally — 

"And  to  be  genuine,  it  should  have  the 
name  'Hughes'  blown  in  the  bottle." 

After  that  the  rain  somehow  did  not  seem 
so  sad  a  gray,  and  when  she  finally  got  home 
it  was  to  cheer  her  mother  with  an  un- 
quenched  good  humour,  lit  by  many  a  prank- 
ish notion,  so  like  the  Jessica  she  knew  best. 

But  the  next  morning,  still  cloud-hung 
and  dull,  when  they  had  taken  the  boat  to  a 
point  down  the  lake  where  Herr  Vogt's  cot- 
[121] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


tage  stood,  it  was  a  gradually  saddening 
singing  teacher  who  found  himself  com- 
pelled to  see  that  this  girl,  standing  so  wood- 
enly  and  emitting  that  wonderful  voice,  was 
the  Jessica  Murney  he  had  known  and  de- 
spaired of  before  that  never-to-be-forgotten 
glorious  morning,  when  she  had  first  seemed 
to  be  the  mistress  of  her  own  voice,  and  to 
sing  with  all  her  soul  her  own  songs.  "Tin 
and  paint  once  more,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"Tin  and  paint." 

And  then  he  sought  to  rouse  her.  He 
talked  seriously  to  her.  He  told  her  that 
as  she  was  those  last  days  in  Dresden,  she 
had  the  world  at  her  feet ;  but  that  as  she  was 
to-day  she  was  only  "a  curiosity,  a  freak;" 
and  he  told  her  many  other  things  even  less 
pleasant  to  hear. 

As  from  her  mountain-top  Jessica  had 
judged  and  condemned  her  careless,  con- 
tented self  in  the  valley ;  so  now  in  her  valley, 
she  scorned  the  visionary  Jessica  of  the 
mountain-top.  She  assured  Herr  Vogt, 
with  not  too  much  patience  in  her  voice,  that 
when  she  got  before  an  audience  she  would 
[122] 


LUCERNE 

get  facial  expression  all  right — she  always 
had.  He  needn't  worry  about  that.  But 
one  couldn't  ride  the  moon  all  the  time. 

"Facial  expression!  Ach,  mein  Gott! 
It  is  soul  expression  that  I  want,"  he  cried; 
and  when  they  had  gone  away,  Jessica  with 
a  facial  expression  suggestive  of  storm,  he 
mourned  audibly  for  hours  over  the  mysteri- 
ous retrograde  change  in  his  marvellous  pu- 
pil. Jessica  went  to  him  every  other  morning 
as  agreed,  but  with  the  old  unsympathetic 
demeanour  toward  her  own  music ;  and  Herr 
Vogt  was  just  on  the  point  of  telling  her  to 
go  back  to  Dresden — or  anywhere  else  she 
pleased — when  he  had  a  call  one  afternoon 
from  a  strange  young  man,  erect,  luminous- 
headed  and  outspoken. 

The  stranger  said  that  his  name  was  Wer- 
ner, that  he  was  a  friend  of  the  Murneys, 
and  that  he  would  like  to  be  told  where  they 
were  staying  in  Lucerne. 

Herr  Vogt  said  that  he  could  give  him 
their  present  address,  but  added  impulsively 
that  they  would  not  be  likely  to  stay  there 
long. 

[123] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"  'Zo?'  "  said  Werner,  inquiringly. 

"'Yah,'  "  replied  Herr  Vogt;  and  think- 
ing that  this  young  man  might  perform  the 
unpleasant  task  of  breaking  the  news  to 
them,  told  him  the  whole  story  of  Jessica's 
backsliding. 

"'Zo!'"  said  Herr  Werner,  comprehend- 
ingly;  and  asked  when  Jessica's  next  lesson 
came. 

"Day  after  to-morrow." 

"Do  not  decide  until  then,"  said  Herr 
Werner,  and  he  strode  back  to  the  boat. 
Herr  Vogt  hurried  to  his  door  to  look  after 
him — an  extraordinary  young  man.  Still 
he  was  a  German! 

Herr  Werner  found  the  Murneys  in  their 
side  street,  sitting  listlessly  in-doors;  for 
they  had  "done"  the  Lion  and  the  Glacier 
Garden  and  the  bridges  and  the  old  town, 
and  it  had  been  too  rainy  to  go  down  the 
lake  or  up  any  of  the  mountains.  They 
welcomed  him  as  one  who  had  come  out  of 
their  old  happy  life  at  Dresden,  though  his 
presence  suggested  the  regretful  thought 
that  it  might  just  as  easily  have  been 
[124] 


LUCERNE 

Hughes.  And  he,  knowing  himself  to  be 
out  of  tune  with  the  spirits  of  both  the  ladies, 
did  not  stay  long ;  but  got  them  in  their  dull- 
ness to  promise  to  come  with  him  for  a  little 
walk  the  next  morning. 

It  proved  to  be  the  first  morning  since 
their  arrival  of  the  complete  victory  of  the 
sun.  The  over-mastered  clouds  still  lay  in 
fruitless  hiding  in  the  farthermost  moun- 
tain recesses,  while  the  smiling  peaks  trailed 
torn  fragments  of  them  in  triumph  before  his 
shining  chariot.  Herr  Werner  took  the  ladies 
almost  in  silence  first  to  the  little  garden 
before  the  crouching  Lion  of  Lucerne. 
They  protested  that  they  had  been  there,  but 
he  said  that  he  had  something  in  particular 
that  he  wished  them  to  see.  There,  as  they 
sat  on  the  bench  while  the  girl  from  the 
"curio"  shop  giggled  in  the  back-ground 
with  the  uniformed  "runner"  from  the 
Glacier  Garden,  he  told  them  the  story  of 
the  Swiss  Guard  who,  having  made  mer- 
chandise of  their  very  lives,  delivered  the 
goods  without  flinching. 
[125] 


THE  PEXSIONXAIRES 


"Brave!"  said  Jessica.  "Brave,  but 
stupid." 

"Stupid?  Measured  by  the  draper's  clerk 
— perhaps.  But  come,  I  want  to  take  you 
up  the  hill  apiece;"  and  walking  together 
past  the  church,  with  its  little  "campo  santo" 
about  it,  they  followed  a  climbing  road  that 
led  behind  a  fringe  of  houses  on  the  edge 
of  the  slope.  As  they  went,  they  disputed 
over  the  quality  of  the  devotion  of  the  Swiss 
Guard,  Jessica  insisting  that  it  was  a  stupid 
fulfilment  of  a  stupid  bargain,  while  Herr 
Werner  saw  in  it  the  nobility  of  a  supreme 
honesty.  Like  many  in  their  day,  they  had 
hired  out  as  soldiers;  and,  having  taken 
their  wages,  they  did  their  work. 

The  road,  as  it  climbed,  now  had  a  great 
field  of  wild  flowers  on  one  side,  at  which 
Jessica  exclaimed  again  and  again;  but,  on 
the  other  side,  houses  and  gardens  cut  off 
the  view  to  the  lake  and  the  mountains. 
Presently,  however,  Herr  Werner  stopped 
and  said — 

"This  is  my  'pension.'  Won't  you  come 
[126] 


LUCERNE 

i  i 

in  for  a  moment  and  see  the  view  from  the 
gallery?  It  is  superb.  We  will  go  through 
the  garden  and  you  need  not  go  into  the 
house  at  all." 

So  they  went  with  him  along  the  gravel 
walk  and  up  on  the  side  veranda  and  around 
the  corner  of  the  house  to  the  front.  Mrs. 
Murney  gave  a  gasp  of  astonishment  and 
sank  into  a  chair.  Jessica  stepped  forward 
and  leaned  on  the  veranda  rail.  Before 
them  lay  a  panorama  of  north  Switzerland. 
The  hill  fell  away  at  their  feet — a  slope  of 
massed  tree-tops  through  which  showed  the 
roofs  of  scattered  houses — to  the  edge  of 
the  lake,  which,  sparkling  with  a  light  rip- 
ple, spread  away  far  beneath  them  to  the 
bases  of  the  great  mountains  opposite.  On 
the  left  rose  bleak  Righi,  on  the  right,  green 
Pilatus,  and  between,  a  measureless  vista  of 
tumbled  immensity,  crowned  in  the  distance 
by  the  eternal  snows. 

After  a  time  Jessica  straightened  back 
and  looked  at  Herr  Werner,  the  light  of  her 
higher  self  shining  from  her  face.     "I  have 
[127] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


been  thinking,"  she  said,  "of  those  Swiss 
peasants  who  left  this  to  die  in  the  Tuileries. 
They  were  the  victims  of  a  wretched  system ; 
but  they  bore  themselves  as — as  these  moun- 
tains had  taught  them." 

"  'Zo/  "  said  Herr  Werner;  and  his  eyes 
were  the  first  to  tell  Jessica  that  she  lived 
again  in  the  land  of  "the  vision  and  the 
dream.'* 

Before  the  end  of  the  week  three  things 
had  happened.  Herr  Vogt  had  got  his  won- 
derful pupil  back  again;  the  Murneys  had 
moved  up  to  Herr  Werner's  "pension"  on 
the  hill-top,  and  Mr.  Hughes  had  returned 
to  "Pension"  Liittichau  and  had  a  short  con- 
versation with  the  lady  from  Maine. 

"I  think  some  one  ought  to  interfere,"  she 
said.  "That  girl  is  hypnotized  as  sure  as 
beans." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  do.  She  stopped  being 
like  herself  and  became  a  sort  of  gushing 
imitation  of  Herr  Werner." 

"But  Werner  is  not  with  them  now." 
[128] 


LUCERNE 

-4  '  i  i?K 

"Don't  you  believe  it." 
"Why,  is  he?" 

"How  do  I  know?    But,  if  I  were  a  man, 
I'd  go  and  see." 


[129] 


CHAPTER  XII 


New  "Pensionnaires" 

THE  Murneys  found  themselves  at  the 
table  d'hote  of  their  new  ''pension"  opposite 
two  ladies  who  talked  a  good  deal  to  each 
other,  though  as  far  removed  as  the  poles  in 
temperament  and  interests.  One  was  a 
faded  social  flower  —  a  widow,  who  had  lived 
all  over  the  world  and  had  a  set  of  correct 
opinions  ready  for  every  possible  subject. 
The  other  was  a  cold,  unornamented,  "ram- 
rody"  sort  of  woman  —  a  spinster,  a  very 
Amazon  in  the  service  of  advanced  thought, 
tempered  by  a  touch  of  British  conservatism. 
The  widow  commonly  came  to  dinner  in  a 
lace  mantilla;  the  Amazon  appeared  at 
luncheon  in  a  walking  hat  and  skirt.  Next 
the  widow  sat  a  lady  who  was  quite  hard 
of  hearing  ;  and  with  her  the  widow  delighted 
to  talk  of  aristocratic  mutual  acquaintances. 
It  was  sensibly  elevating,  socially,  to  hear 
[130] 


NEW  "PENSIONNAIRES" 


the  widow  conjecture  in  a  tone  loud  enough 
to  pierce  her  companion's  dull  ears  whether 
or  not  Lady  Blank  would  go  to  her  villa 
in  Cannes  for  the  winter,  or  why  the  Prince 
of  Centesimi  had  ceased  to  be  interested 
in  his  Tuscan  estate. 

Next  Mrs.  Murney  sat  a  non-conductor, 
conversationally — a  Russian  who  never 
spoke  to  anybody  except  his  hostess,  and  to 
her  in  German.  Beside  him  was  a  German 
girl  who  delighted  to  practise  her  English. 
Opposite  the  latter  was  a  rich  French  doc- 
tor and  his  wife  who  seemed  to  talk  anything 
they  liked;  and  beside  her  an  Italian  who 
had  lived  many  years  in  Siam,  and  who 
talked  a  remarkable  English  all  the  time. 
Opposite  Herr  Werner,  who  sat  next  to 
Jessica,  was  a  young  American  couple,  in 
love  with  each  other  and  with  travel. 

"I'm  really  afraid  to  buy  anything,"  the 
young  American  wife  was  saying.  "The 
New  York  customs  house  is  simply  awful." 

"I  think  we  all  get  to  be  free  traders  over 
here,"  observed  Mrs.  Murney. 

"I  heard  of  a  man  once,"  said  the  Ameri- 
[131] 


THE   PENSIONNAIRES 


can  husband,  "who  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  joke  to  scare  his  wife;  so  when  they 
got  off  at  New  York  he  called  a  customs 
house  officer  and  said:  'You  better  search 
that  woman.  I  think  she  is  smuggling  some 
lace.'  So  they  called  her  aside  and  searched 
her,  and  found  eight  hundred  dollars'  worth 
on  her  which  she  had  bought  for  friends  and 
didn't  tell  her  husband  about.  When  the 
officer  came  out  and  thanked  the  astonished 
husband  for  his  timely  hint,  he  realized  the 
pleasures  of  being  too  funny." 

"I  thought,"  said  the  French  doctor, 
sweetly,  "that  American  wives  and  husbands 
kept  nothing  from  each  other." 

"That,"  observed  the  widow,  "is  a  pleas- 
ing fiction.  I  lived  for  twelve  years  in 
America." 

"I  shouldn't  call  it  'a  pleasing  fiction,' ' 
broke  in  the  Amazon  in   a   wintry   voice. 
"Why  should  a  woman  sink  her  individual- 
ity in  a  partnership?" 

"Why  should  a  man?"  the  American  hus- 
band inquired  militantly. 

"Why  should  he,  indeed?"   retorted   the 
[132] 


NEW  "PENSIONNAIRES" 


Amazon,  "though,  for  that  matter,  he  sel- 
dom does." 

"Does  the  woman,  do  you  think?"  asked 
the  widow  softly. 

"Too  often,"  from  the  Amazon. 

"It  is  better,  I  think,  where  they  both  do," 
observed  the  American  wife  with  downcast 
eyes  and  a  sweet  half  -smile. 

"It  is  best,"  said  Herr  Werner,  "when 
their  individualities  are  alike;"  and  Jessica 
raised  her  eyes  to  his  approvingly. 

"German  husbands  —  ah  —  wear  a  —  I  can- 
not think,"  began  the  German  girl  with 
more  pluck  than  vocabulary. 

"A  long  pipe?"  suggested  the  French 
doctor,  innocently. 

"No-o!"  said  the  German  girl,  quite  seri- 
ously; and  she  was  visibly  going  over  her 
mind  methodically  in  search  of  that  missing 
word. 

"A  pair  of  spectacles?"  laughed  the 
American  husband. 

"A  marriage  ring?"  growled  Herr  Wer- 
ner. 

His  countrywoman  smiled  her  thanks  at 
[133] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


him.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "that  is  right.  Ger- 
man husbands  wear  a  marriage  ring;  but 
you  English — husbands — put  it  off,  isn't 
it?" 

"They  never  put  it  on,"  said  Jessica. 

"No-o?"  cried  the  German  girl  in  great 
surprise,  looking  as  if  she  would  doubt  the 
propriety  of  a  marriage  of  that  kind. 

"Different  people,"  observed  the  Ameri- 
can husband,  "wear  the  ring  of  subjection 
in  different  places — the  German  on  his 
finger,  the  bull  in  his  nose,  the  American  in 
his  voice." 

"While  the  Englishman,  I  am  told," 
broke  in  Jessica,  with  a  recurrence  of  her  old 
manner,  "puts  it  in  his  wife's  name." 

Herr  Werner  had  a  gratified  expression 
at  this,  until  the  Amazon  remarked  that  a 
German's  treatment  of  his  "frau"  was  sim- 
ply uncivilized. 

"The  frau,"  observed  the  German  girl, 
"is  out  of  the  kitchen  getting — " 

"To  make  room  for  men,"  shot  in  the 
French  doctor,  "as  in  France.  With  us, 
the  business  of  cooking  is  too  vitally  impor- 
[134] 


NEW  "PENSIONNAIRES" 


tant  to  be  left  to  the  ladies,"  and  he  smiled 
jocosely  at  his  wife. 

"The  ladies,"  said  the  Amazon,  "seldom 
cook  with  us." 

"But  they  do  with  us,"  cried  the  Ameri- 
can husband.  "We  have  the  cook-lady  and 
the  laundry-lady,  you  know,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  put  in  print 
the  disgust  on  the  Amazon's  face.  The 
gentleman  from  Siam  now  began  a  mono- 
logue upon  Italian  domestic  life,  deadening 
his  voice  at  regular  intervals — but  never 
stopping  it — with  a  forkful  from  his  plate. 

"The  Italian  is  a  queer  fellow,"  he  was 
saying  presently.  "One  said  to  me  just  the 
other  day — 'It  costs  me  five  thousand  lire 
to  live;  two  thousand  to  keep  my  house,  to 
feed  me  and  to  clothe  me,  and  three  thousand 
to  drive  me  out  in  the  corso.'  Now  I  would 
have  said  four  thousand  to  live  and  one  thou- 
sand for  carriage;  but  the  Italian  is  all  for 
show.  Still  he  lives  very  cheaply;  he  eats 
many  macaroni,  cooked  in  all  styles,  and 
much  vegetables;"  and  he  began  giving  the 
[135] 


THE    PENSIONNAIRES 


price  of  vegetables  in  the  various   Italian 
cities. 

The  table  had  been  subtly  conscious  for 
some  minutes  that  an  affectionate  difference 
of  opinion  had  sprung  into  existence  be- 
tween the  French  couple.  Only  a  low  word 
or  two  in  lightning  French  had  been  spoken, 
but  an  incessant  though  noiseless  discussion 
by  means  of  shrugged  shoulders  and 
wrinkled  foreheads  and  moue-ed  lips  had 
followed.  Now,  however,  it  was  ended,  and 
Madame  had  her  way;  for  she  placed  a 
quieting  hand  over  the  Doctor's  as  it  lay,  po- 
tently nervous  though  still,  on  the  table,  and 
asked  the  Swiss  hostess  if  she  wouldn't  poach 
an  egg  for  "M'sieur." 

"Oui}  certainement"  and  a  smile;  and  the 
order  was  given. 

The  Doctor  assumed  a  delightful  air  of 
resignation.  Madame  flashed  at  him  a  mis- 
chievous glance  that  had,  however,  a  light 
touch  of  motherliness  in  it.  Then  he  turned 
to  Jessica  with — 

"My  wife  spoils  me." 
[136] 


NEW  "PENSIONNAIRES: 


"Nothing  is  pleasanter,"  responded  Jes- 
sica. 

Madame  beamed  on  her  and  almost  spoke, 
but  thought  better  of  it;  possibly  she  might 
have  told  the  girl  that  she  would  learn  one 
day  that  it  is  as  pleasant  to  do  the  spoiling. 

Several  days  later  when  the  Murneys 
climbed  the  hill  from  the  quay,  after  having 
spent  the  morning  with  Herr  Vogt,  Jessica 
caught  sight  of  a  familiar  face  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. Pushing  open  the  door,  she  saw 
others ;  and  then  she  knew  them — the  Vassar 
party. 

"Why,  Miss  Murney!"  "And  Mrs.  Mur- 
ney!"  they  chorused;  and  then — "Are  you 
here?"  and  "When  did  you  leave  Dresden?" 
and  "Where  have  you  been  since?" 

"Where  have  you  been?"  asked  Jessica. 

"Oh!  let  me  see,"  cried  one  of  them. 
"From  Dresden  we  went  to  Prague  and  then 
to  Vienna — Oh!  Vienna  is  sweet.  You 
ought  to  see  the  officers  on — on — What  is 
the  name  of  that  street? — Where  the  cafes 
are,  you  know!" 

[137] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


"Karntner  Strasse"  said  the  Fraulein  in 
charge  of  the  party,  a  little  wearily. 

"Karntner  Strasse!  Oh,  yes!  Such  distin- 
guished looking  men !  And  then  the  Prater 
on  a  Sunday! — and  the  Bohemian  girls!" 

"Oh,  and  you  should  see  the  girls  wearing 
Cashmere  shawls  over  their  heads  in  Venice," 
broke  in  another  enthusiastically. 

"Why,  have  you  been  to  Venice,  too?" 
asked  Jessica,  in  astonishment. 

"Yes;  and  Florence  and  Milan.  We 
were  a  long  time  in  Florence — did  every- 
thing." 

"How  delightful!"  said  Jessica,  her  head 
beginning  to  whirl. 

"But  the  Last  Supper  there  is  a  fraud," 
one  of  them  warned  her  solemnly.  "All 
faded." 

"It  is  not  in  Florence,  Bertha,"  corrected 
the  Fraulein.  "It  is  in  Milan." 

"Oh!"  said  Bertha.  "Well,  we  took  the 
street  car  to  it  anyway." 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  long  here?"  asked 
Jessica. 

"Quite  a  while!"  said  one  of  them.  "We 
[138] 


NEW  "PENSIONNAIRES' 


are  going  to  do  Lucerne  and  a  run  down 
the  Lake  this  afternoon,  go  up  the  Righi 
to-morrow,  and  possibly  on  to  Geneva  next 
day." 

That  afternoon  Jessica  went  with  Herr 
Werner  to  study  the  old  paintings  on  the 
two  curious  wooden  bridges  that  cross  the 
swift  Reuss  as  it  flows  out  of  the  lake 
through  the  city;  and  very  redolent  of  the 
elder  time  they  found  them.  Slowly  they 
walked  from  one  to  another,  making  out  the 
meaning  of  each,  so  full  of  the  mystery  of 
a  religion  that  was  frankly  and  constantly 
supernatural,  and  of  the  greatness  of  rulers 
who  led  their  people  into  battle,  risking 
something  more  than  the  annoyance  of  dis- 
turbing cablegrams. 

When  they  had  tired  their  eyes  and  sated 
their  imaginations,  they  walked  home  past 
the  Schweizerhof ;  and  Mr.  Hughes,  who 
had  walked  Lucerne  three  days  in  silent 
search  of  the  Murneys,  there  met  them. 

So  it  was  true,  he  told  himself;  Werner 
was  here,  and  not  in  Poland  at  all.     The 
three  chatted  for  a  few  minutes  and  ci- 
[139] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


changed  addresses;  and  then  Jessica  and 
Herr  Werner  went  on  up  the  hill. 

"He's  hypnotized  her,  danm  him,"  said 
Hughes  to  his  moustache.  "She  is  up  in  the 
air  all  the  time — not  a  bit  like  herself. 
Should  have  a  brother  here,  by  Jove! — I 
wonder  what  her  mother  is  about.  Hypno- 
tized, too,  likely." 

Which  last  was  nearer  the  truth  than  most 
of  his  soliloquy ;  for  Mrs.  Murney  was  again 
dreaming  of  New  York  opera  and  golden 
streams,  and  a  home  on  Murray  Hill — yes, 
and  a  cottage  at  "the  Pier." 


[140] 


MR.  THEODORE  HUGHES  considered  his  po- 
sition at  great  length  that  night,  sitting  in 
the  starlight  on  one  of  the  benches  by  the  lake 
and  near  the  Casino  while  doing  it.  The 
sound  of  singing  floated  in  from  happy 
boatloads  out  on  the  placid  water ;  a  circle  of 
lights  marked  the  sweep  of  the  old  town; 
upon  the  hill  behind  him  an  occasional  bright 
ray  broke  through  the  foliage  of  the  trees, 
one,  perhaps,  from  the  lamp  beside  which 
Jessica  possibly  sat — Jessica  and  "that 
cursed  German."  Across  the  harbour  tin- 
gled and  circled  and  clashed  a  light-etched 
"merry-go-round"  with  a  mechanical  orches- 
tra. The  clear,  cool  air  of  the  Alpine  night 
lay  on  his  cheek  and  the  vast  mountain 
masses  were  a  dim  shadow.  Gradually  Mr. 
Hughes's  cigarettes  turned  from  coal  to  ash, 
[141] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


and  he  seldom  moved  except  to  extract  an- 
other from  his  case. 

What  should  he  do  about  it?  Should  he 
do  anything?  He  found  it  easier  to  argue 
that  he  shouldn't  than  that  he  should,  but  the 
conclusion  was  less  satisfactory.  Still  Miss 
Murney  had  no  claim  upon  him.  She  was 
not  even  a  countrywoman  of  his.  If  she 
chose  to  have  that  dreamy  German  with  her, 
and  her  mother  was  willing  that  she  should, 
why  should  he but  that  German  was  dis- 
gusting, and  no  mistake.  They  probably 
took  walks  together,  and  she  sat  among  the 
wild  flowers  and  made  daisy  chains  for  him. 
It  would  be  unmanly  in  him  (Hughes)  to  go 
away  and  leave  a  young  girl  to  that.  He 
would  drive  off  the  German  vampire  and 
then  he  would  go  away.  If  she  did  not  want 
him  about,  he  would  not  stay  about;  but  it 
was  only  common  chivalry  to  rescue  her  from 
positive  danger  before  he  went. 

As  for  the  "how,"  he  knew  but  one  way, 

and  that  was  to  see  the  German  and  tell 

him  he  must  clear   out  and   leave   the    girl 

alone,  and  if  he  wouldn't   "clear   out,"    to 

[142] 


WERNER  MOVES 


knock  him  down.  That  settled,  Mr.  Hughes 
took  a  turn  by  the  lake  and  went  to  bed. 

The  next  day  Herr  Werner  went  down 
town  in  the  morning  and  did  not  turn  up  for 
luncheon  at  the  hill-top  "pension."  But  the 
others  did,  and  the  French  doctor  was  in- 
clined to  be  talkative. 

"I  like  Americans,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Mur- 
ney  with  that  astonishing  skill  in  point-blank 
compliment  which  is  second  nature  to  the 
French  race.  "They  seem  nearer  kin  to 
us  than  the  English — not  so  cold,  quicker, 
more — more  intuitional." 

"I  think  we  are,"  agreed  Mrs.  Murney. 
"I  find  English  people  difficult  to  get  ac- 
quainted with." 

The  widow  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Some 
people,"  she  said,  "prefer  peanuts  to  wal- 
nuts because  they  have  so  little  shell." 

"You  are  not  English,"  said  the  Doctor 
to  her  quickly. 

"No,  but  I  like  them,"  she  replied.  "They 
know  what  friendship  means — they  are 
steadfast  and  loyal." 

"Pouf!"  cried  the  Frenchman.  "Every; 
[143] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


man  is  his  own  best  friend,  and  of  the  rest 
of  the  world  he  asks — sympathy  with  his 
mood,  entertainment,  'bonne  camaraderie/ 
nothing  more." 

"Yet  sometimes  he  wants  to  borrow  a  dol- 
lar," remarked  the  American  husband  drily, 
with  a  smile  to  his  plate. 

"Don't  you  think  that  Americans  make 
good  friends,  too?"  Jessica  asked  of  the 
widow. 

"Splendid!"  was  the  reply,  and  with  en- 
thusiasm. "Especially,"  she  added,  "for 
light  afflictions.  They  are  so  instantly  kind, 
and  so  solicitous,  and  so  quick  to  take  trouble 
for  you." 

"But  do  you  never  want  friends  when  the 
sun  shines?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

The  question  seemed  to  reach  an  inner 
sanctuary  in  Jessica,  and  she  said  thought- 
fully, half  to  herself — 

"Do  we,  I  wonder?  Is  it  not  companion- 
ship we  want  then?" 

"Ah!"  breathed  the  Frenchman,  with  a 
quick  glance  at  her  that  told  how  true  he 
[144] 


WERNER  MOVES 


found  her  intuition,  and  how  surprised  he 
was  to  find  it  so. 

"That  is  which  I  think,"  joined  in  the  gen- 
tleman from  Siam,  who  had  begun  to  find  his 
own  long  silence  oppressive.  "When  I  am 
gay,  I  want  friends,  friends,  friends;  but 
when  I  am  sad,  I  select  to  be  alone." 

"That  is  like  the  animals,"  pleasantly  ob- 
served the  Amazon.  "When  wounded,  they 
hide  themselves." 

Jessica  heard  little  of  this,  for  she  was  still 
thinking  of  the  Frenchman's  question. 

"You  like  to  enjoy  things,"  she  now  said, 
"with  people  who  see  them  as  you  do,  with- 
out asking  whether  they  would  stand  by  you 
in  trouble  or  not,  but  when  trouble  comes, 
you  want  one  with  you  who  will  stand  the 
closer  the  darker  it  grows — and  it  matters 
little  then  whether  or  not  he  sees  all  the 
colours  of  the  rainbow  as  you  do." 

'  'One' — 'he,'  "  quoted  the  young  Ameri- 
can wife  under  her  breath. 

Jessica   heard   it,    however,    and  flushed 
furiously,  resolving  never  to  think  out  loud 
in  public  again.     For  she  knew  that  in  her 
[145] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


mind,  "companion"  had  meant  Herr  Wer- 
ner, and  "friend"  Mr.  Hughes,  and  she  was 
not  a  little  startled  to  see  so  plainly  her  atti- 
tude toward  the  two  men. 

The  conversation  then  turned  to  the  kind 
of  time  the  Vassar  party  were  probably  hav- 
ing on  the  Righi — with  an  interlude  by  the 
Italian  from  Siam  on  the  loneliness  of  life 
in  the  "clubs"  of  the  tropics — and  from  that 
to  the  dangers  and  follies  and  daring  of  Al- 
pinism. 

"Alpinism!  It  sounds  like  a  new  re- 
ligion," said  Jessica. 

"It  is,"  the  American  husband  assured  her 
cheerfully,  "with  a  ready-made;  hymn  in 
'Excelsior'  and  climbing  toward  heaven  as 
an  object." 

"And  for  a  god,"  observed  the  French- 
man, "the  image  of  one's  self  a  niche  higher 
than  any  other,"  and  then,  after  a  pause — 
"this  making  of  gods  in  one's  own  image  is 
not  a  new  idea  in  the  history  of  religions." 

Herr  Werner  was  meantime  having  his 
luncheon  with  Herr  Vogt,  and  there  was  a 
suffused  flush  Under  his  left  eye  and  his 
[146] 


WERNER  MOVES 


nose  looked  large  and  tender.  And  Herr 
Vogt's  protruding  eyes  were  rolling  in  alarm 
at  Herr  Werner's  singular  story.  He  was 
learning  for  the  first  time  what  it  was  that 
killed  the  song-spirit  in  the  wonderful  Miss 
Murney,  and  made  her  a  lump  of  clay.  It 
was  the  malevolent  presence  of  a  rude, 
frozen-faced,  soulless,  raw-beef-eating  bar- 
barian from  England,  who  led  her  to  play 
at  a  silly  ball  game  until  she  was  a  mere 
panting,  perspiring  animal,  who  ridiculed 
every  out-reaching  of  the  soul  and  cared 
only  for  jingle  music  or  sloppy  ballads, 
who  had  no  imagination,  no  love  for  the 
dream,  and  who,  when  he  was  present, 
dragged  the  song  queen  down  to  his  level — 
that  of  a  street  singer  enjoying  a  romp  in 
the  country.  And,  worst  of  all,  he  had  fol- 
lowed them  from  Dresden  to  Lucerne. 

"But  can  you  not  keep  her  from  him?" 
cried  Herr  Vogt — of  course  in  German. 

"He  has  seen  her,"  answered  Herr  Wer- 
ner gloomily,  "and  he  knows  her  address, 
and  nothing  on  earth — not  a  regiment  of 
Uhlans — would  keep  him  from  her." 

[147] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"What  can  we  do?  What  can  we  do?" 
lamented  Herr  Vogt.  "We  must  not  lose 
her  again.  She  will  be  the  star  of  Europe/' 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  Herr  Werner,  im- 
pressively. "Who  brought  her  to  you  this 
last  time  when  she  was  lost?" 

"It  was  you." 

"Yes,  and  though  you  did  not  know  it," 
went  on  Herr  Werner,  "it  was  I  who 
brought  her  to  herself  the  day  she  went  to 
Meissen." 

"Ah!"  cried  Herr  Vogt.  "She  told  me 
that  it  was  there  that  her  eyes  were  opened." 

"Yes — and  with  me.  Now  listen!  We 
must  get  her  away  from  here  and  at  once. 
We  must  hide  her  from  this  barbarian." 

"But  will  she  go?"  asked  Herr  Vogt. 

"Yes;  now  she  will — she  has  not  been 
seized  by  the  English  bulldog  yet.  But  you 
must  command;  you  must  say  that  you  are 
going  and  I  must  only  seem  to  follow." 

"Yes— but  where?" 

That  was  the  question,  and  for  an  hour 
they  discussed  it.  Berlin  would  have  won, 
but  it  would  be  so  easy  to  trace  them  there — 
[148] 


WERNER  MOVES 


Herr  Vogt  was  so  well  known,  and  the  Ger- 
man police  so  omniscient.  Then  the  Mur- 
neys  would  want  a  reason  for  passing  Dres- 
den. 

At  last,  Herr  Werner  had  an  inspiration. 
"Why  not  say  Paris?"  he  proposed.  "We 
can  tell  her  that  it  is  for  the  advantage  of 
the  opera,  and  I  know  a  safe  nook  in  the 
Latin  Quarter." 

So  it  was  settled,  and  Herr  Werner  took 
his  boat  back,  stopped  at  a  chemist's  to  get 
his  eye  painted  and  his  swollen  nose  reduced, 
and  then  climbed  the  hill  and  walked  through 
the  garden  to  the  veranda  to  find  Hughes 
and  Jessica  pacing  up  and  down  there  as  if 
they  trod  the  deck  of  a  ship. 

The  two  men  bowed  stiffly  and  Herr  Wer- 
ner said  that  he  had  been  taking  a  little  jour- 
ny  on  the  lake.  Then  he  called  their  atten- 
tion to  the  rose-tints  and  the  softly  shaded 
blues  that  lay  among  the  massed  mountains 
piled  up  to  the  southern  horizon. 

"Very  pretty,"  said  Hughes,  patronizing 
the  prospect  in  quite  a  proper,  self-respect- 
ing fashion. 

[149] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


But  Jessica  had  leaned  upon  the  railing, 
and  her  eyes  went  out  to  the  marvellous 
beauty  of  the  scene,  soft  and  yet  rugged, 
majestic  and  yet  tinted  like  a  garden  flower. 

Herr  Werner  smiled  under  his  mous- 
tache. He  had  pitted  the  Alps  against  the 
Englishman.  Let  him  bully  them  if  he 
could  I 


[150] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

t 
"Purple  Gods" 

As  Mr.  Hughes  walked  down  the  hill 
from  the  Murney  "pension,"  he  did  some 
resolute  thinking.  Clearly,  the  "knock 
down"  argument  did  not  dispose  of  Herr 
Werner.  He  came  up  after  it,  not  exactly 
smiling  but  unabashed,  and  while  Mr. 
Hughes  despised  him  for  not  fighting  back 
as  the  rules  of  the  game  demanded,  he  had 
a  sporting  respect  for  the  man  who  had 
come  out  of  the  struggle  unconquered.  He 
was  still  at  the  Murney  "pension" ;  he  would 
be  there  to-night,  practising  his  devilish  mes- 
meric arts.  For  there  was  no  longer  any 
doubt  about  them.  He  (Hughes)  had 
found  Jessica  dreamy  and  abstracted  when 
he  had  called  after  luncheon,  just  as  she 
had  been  during  those  last  days  in  Dresden. 
If  he  had  not  known  her  as  she  was  before 
Werner  got  hold  of  her,  he  would  have 
[151] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


thought  her  pretty  dull  company.  But  there 
was  the  same  soft,  smooth  cheek — a  shade 
thinner;  the  same  deep-breathing  bosom; the 
same  masses  of  silken  black  hair;  some- 
thing of  the  same  quick  play  of  mind — but 
not  quite.  It  winged  about  so  much  in  the 
clouds  now  that  he  hardly  knew  whether  it 
was  quick  or  slow.  But  gradually  as  they 
talked  she  had  come  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  prankish,  gay -hearted  spirit  of  the  old 
Jessica.  Then  "Svengali"  camel  when  in  a 
flash  she  was  back  in  the  clouds  again,  talk- 
ing a  sort  of  watery,  womanish  rendering 
of  Werner's  nonsense.  It  was  downright 
sickening. 

Well,  what  should  he  do?  Let  Werner 
go  on?  He  might  not  get  a  chance  to  knock 
him  down  again  for  a  month.  Perplexed 
and  growing  more  indignant  with  every 
step,  he  reached  his  hotel;  and  there  was 
amazed  to  find  a  lady  with  outstretched  hand 
and  sweet  smile,  awaiting  him  in  the  hall. 

"I  know  you're  surprised,"  she  said.  "I 
knew  you  would  be  when  I  got  Sam  to  come 
on  here.  But  I  wanted  to  see  how  you  made 
[152] 


'PURPLE  GODS" 


out  with  the  big  hypnotist  and  his  poor  vic- 
tim. Herr  Werner's  here  all  right,  isn't 
he?  I  just  couldn't  wait."  It  was  the  lady 
from  Maine. 

"Well,  I'm  not  making  out,"  said  Hughes 
savagely. 

"He's  here,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes." 

"I  knew  it.     I  knew  it.     I  told  Sam—" 

"Who's  Sam?" 

"Why,  my  husband — don't  you  know?" 

"I  never  heard  his  first  name." 

"Oh,  well,  Sam's  with  me.  And  now 
come  up  to  my  room  and  tell  us  all  about  it. 
I'm  just  dying  to  hear." 

At  first  Hughes  demurred.  There  was 
nothing  to  tell.  But  the  voice  of  the  lady 
from  Maine  rose  as  she  conjectured  freely 
what  had  happened  with  a  view  to  improving 
his  memory,  and  people  in  the  hall  began  to 
look  at  them  curiously — so  he  went.  There 
she  elicited  from  him  that  he  had  seen  them, 
that  he  believed  Jessica  to  be  hypnotized,  that 
he  had  met  and  remonstrated  plainly  with 
Herr  Werner,  to  which  he  added,  with  a 
[153] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


reserved,  deep -throated  note  of  self -appro- 
val, that  he  had  incidentally  knocked  him 
down — 

"No!  Did  you?"  cried  "Sam,"  waking 
Up  to  a  new  interest  in  the  affair. 

Hughes  nodded. 

"Why,  however  did  you  get  the  chance?" 

"Met  him  outside  the  wall." 

"Well,  that's  'magnifyke,'  as  the  French 
say." 

"And  he's  still  there?"  asked  the  lady  from 
Maine. 

"Yes,  he  is,"  grimly,  "and  she's  still  right 
under  his  thumb." 

"What — can — we — do?"  the  lady  from 
Maine  conjectured  in  slow  wonder. 

"Rescue  her  and  carry  her  off,"  suggested 
her  husband  lightly. 

"Where  to?"  she  demanded,  cheerily  ready 
for  the  adventure.  "We  couldn't  bring  her 
to  this  hotel" — doubtfully. 

"Well,  I  guess  not,"  agreed  her  husband 
in  hearty  tones.  "I  don't  want  to  carry  no 
screeching  women  through  these  halls,  thank 

you." 

[  154] 


'PURPLE  GODS" 


Hughes  had  risen.  He  was  in  no  mood 
for  this  banter.  The  matter  was  serious — 
and  Jessica  was  not  to  be  regarded  as  "a 
screeching  woman."  How  hopelessly  vul- 
gar some  good-hearted  people  were. 

"Might  take  her  to  Jimmy  Wood's  cot- 
tage across  the  lake,"  drawled  "Sam"  in  slow 
tones,  getting  up  to  see  Hughes  out. 

"The  very  thing!"  cried  the  lady  from 
Maine,  excitedly.  "Sit  down,  both  of  you; 
sit  down.  The  very  thing.  Oh,  I've  al- 
ways wanted  to  rescue  some  one  from  some- 
where, and  now  I  shall.  It  will  be  so — 
mediaeval  and — and  romantic.  We'll  climb 
the  hill— at  night—" 

"No,  we  won't,  Martha;  not  we,"  drily, 
from  her  still  standing  husband. 

"Oh,  you  won't — unless  you're  made," 
his  wife  flung  impatiently  at  him;  "but  lis- 
ten, Mr.  Hughes — "  and  she  told  him,  while 
he  stood  listening  stoically,  but  eager  to  get 
away  and  think,  how  Jimmy  Wood  had  told 
them  they  could  use  his  furnished  cottage 
down  the  lake,  how  nice  it  was  and  how  com- 
plete in  everything,  and  then  pointed  out 
[155] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


that  she  and  her  husband  could  take  it  and 
could  carry  Miss  Murney  off  there  and  keep 
her  for  a  few  days  until  Herr  Werner's 
spell  was  broken,  when  she  would  be  grateful 
to  them  for  ever  after. 

Mr.  Hughes  smiled,  said  that  he  must 
congratulate  her  on  still  retaining  the  ro- 
mance of  sixteen,  and  politely  took  his  leave. 

"You  are  the  silliest  old  fool,"  growled 
her  husband. 

"After  dinner,"  said  the  lady  from  Maine, 
"we  will  row  over  there  and  see  what  the 
cottage  looks  like." 

When  they  started  the  evening  was  yet 
light,  and  Mr.  Hughes  was  standing  on  the 
veranda,  mechanically  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"We're  going  to  get  the  cottage  ready," 
said  the  lady  from  Maine,  smiling  know- 
ingly. 

Mr.  Hughes  smiled  back  slightly  and 
lifted  his  hat  in  farewell.  Then  he  went  on 
smoking  and  thinking.  What  could  he  do? 
Hour  by  hour,  Jessica's  peril  had  grown 
more  real  in  his  eyes.  Werner,  who  had 
taken  his  knockdown  and  then  come  back 
[156] 


TURPLE  GODS' 


again  with  a  pale  smile,  seemed  no  longer 
a  man  to  him — a  man  restrained  by  decency 
and  human  feeling.  Hughes  felt  that  he 
had  no  reliable  key  to  the  conscience  of  such 
a  man — his  sense  of  what  was  proper  did 
not  work  like  that  of  other  people — "other 
people"  meaning  English  people.  What 
might  he  not  do  with  two  helpless  ladies  in 
his  hands,  and  one  of  them  a  lovely  girl? 

Yet  how  could  one  interfere  ?  What  case 
had  he  for  the  police — if,  like  a  born  Eng- 
lishman, he  did  not  entirely  distrust  a  foreign 
police?  For  the  fourth  time  his  twitching 
fingers  broke  his  cigarette,  and  then  he  be- 
gan walking  aimlessly  down  the  street. 

The  light  faded  and  the  shadows  of  the 
mountains  lengthened  and  thickened  until 
it  was  dark.  Conscious  of  what  he  was  do- 
ing and  yet  not  recognizing  it  in  the  open 
court  of  his  keen  sense  of  "the  correct"  in 
conduct,  he  slowly  wound  up  the  hill  toward 
the  Murney  "pension."  He  found  himself 
at  the  lower  side  of  it,  with  a  garden  between 
him  and  the  house,  entirely  hiding  all  save 
the  roof.  But  here  was  a  gate  and  yonder 
[157] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


wound  a  path.  Dignity  stood  in  his  way 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  there  came 
to  him  on  the  quiet  air  the  sound  of  her 
singing — low  and  unforceful  as  if  she  were 
singing  to  herself.  Perhaps  she  was  alone 
in  the  garden;  the  gate  swung  noiselessly 
under  his  hand  and  he  went  toward  the  voice. 
It  stopped — and  then  came  again — and  then 
died  out.  He  mounted  several  flights  of 
steps  and  followed  the  windings  of  the  up- 
ward path  until  the  house  came  in  sight — 
the  high  veranda  with  lighted  windows  be- 
hind it.  The  cheerful  chatter  of  voices 
swept  in  gusts  out  of  the  open  windows, 
but  none  of  them  was  Jessica's.  Then  slow- 
ly he  became  aware  of  two  figures  seated 
outside  in  the  shadow.  One  of  them  laughed 
— the  pure,  rising  laugh  he  had  learned  to 
listen  for.  His  cheek  burned  suddenly  as 
he  remembered  where  he  was,  and  he  stepped 
noiselessly  backward  with  a  view  to  making 
his  escape.  But  Jessica's  voice  arrested  him. 
"Why  is  it,"  she  was  asking,  "that  when 
I  am  with  you  I  seem  to  have  another  self 
inside  me — a  self  with  eyes  to  see?  I  have 
[158] 


TURPLE  GODS" 


it  all  the  time  now  since  we  came  to  this 
'pension';  but  I  lost  it  wholly  after  I  left 
you  at  Dresden." 

Hughes  set  his  lips.  Was  more  proof 
needed  ? 

"Now  to-night,"  Jessica  went  on,  "out 
there  in  the  purple  dark  I  seem  to  see  a  great 
god  sleeping — the  great  god  of  the  moun- 
tains— I,"  and  there  was  awe  in  her  voice, 
"can  almost  hear  him  breathe,  deep  and 
slow." 

"You  see  him,"  said  Herr  Werner,  sol- 
emnly, "because  he  is  there.  The  wonder 
is  not  that  you  see  him,  but  that  so  many 
do  not." 

"Purple  gods!"  said  Hughes  in  his  chok- 
ing throat.  "Blue  devils  more  like!"  And 
red-faced,  strangling,  he  went  headlong 
down  the  winding  path.  The  laughter  that 
followed  him  from  the  open  windows  seemed 
the  merriment  of  fiends. 

Could  he  do  nothing?     Was  the  sweetest 

girl  in  the  world  to  be  the  victim  of  this 

cowardly,    insinuating    charlatan    with    his 

cheap  tricks,  while  an  Englishman  who  loved 

[159] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


her — yes,  who  loved  her — stood  by  with  lax 
fingers? 

It  was  a  white  face  that  he  showed 
the  lady  from  Maine  in  her  room  that  night 
when  he  asked — 

"Is  the  cottage  ready  now?" 

"Yes.     Why?     How—" 

"To-night?" 

"Why  to-night?"  she  cried  in  amazement. 
"We  could  plan  so  much  better— 

"It  is  to-night  or  never  with  me,"  said 
Hughes. 

She  looked  at  him  hard,  and  saw  that  he 
meant  it. 

"To-night,  then,"  she  cried,  waving  her 
hand  above  her  head.  "Hurrah!  To- 
night!" 

Hughes  turned  quickly  as  if  to  speak. 
He  could  not  do  it  with  such  absurd  people. 
But  he  hesitated,  for  the  question  came  like 
a  blow— "What  then  will  you  do?"  He 
might  rescue  her  alone,  but  the  essence  of 
the  thing  was  to  have  somewhere  to  keep 
her  while  she  regained  her  senses.  That  the 
[160] 


'PURPLE  GODS' 


lady  from  Maine  offered.     So  he  set  his  chin 
again. 

This  alliance  with  inevitable  absurdity  was 
harder  than  to  face  death.  To  die  was  en- 
tirely proper,  but  a  midnight  escapade  with 
these — .  Still  it  was  to  be  endured;  it  was 
all  in  a  day's  work ;  and  he  would  do  it. 


[161] 


CHAPTER  XV 

1" 
The  Rescue  Party 

"SAM"  was  dead  against  the  enterprise. 
The  things  he  said  to  his  wife  would  have  as- 
sured her  a  divorce  in  any  civilised  court. 
He  began  by  belittling  her  judgment  and 
ended  by  challenging  her  sanity ;  and  all  the 
time  Hughes  sat  silent,  firm  in  eye  and  lip. 
"Sam"  showed  that  the  plan  was  impossible; 
but  Hughes  had  a  racial  contempt  for  the 
impossible,  and  the  lady  from  Maine  loved 
it  with  the  passion  of  the  "ten  swords  to  one" 
romance-reader.  "Sam"  said  that  the  police 
would  run  them  down  in  a  day  if  they  suc- 
ceeded, and  this  nearly  frightened  his  wife 
into  giving  the  sweet  adventure  up;  but 
Hughes  spoke  for  the  first  time,  pointing 
out  that  they  were  not  dealing  with  Scotland 
Yard,  and  that,  in  twenty-four  hours,  the 
Murneys  would  be  blessing  them  as  their  res- 
cuers from  an  awful  fate.  Then  it  would 
[162] 


THE  RESCUE  PARTY 


be  Herr  Werner  who  must  look  out  for  the 
police.  The  baffled  "Sam"  shouted  out  in 
helpless  disgust  that  it  would  be  ridiculous- 
absurd — that  they  would  be  "the  laughing 
stock  of  Europe,"  and  at  this  Hughes  winced ; 
but  the  lady  from  Maine  hardly  considered 
it  in  her  hurry  to  get  to  details. 

This  much  favored  them — Hughes  knew 
that  the  Murneys  had  a  corner  room  opening 
on  the  second  veranda,  and  that  the  room 
next  to  it  was  vacant. 

"Well,  how  are  you  goin'  to  get  'em  out?" 
asked  the  exasperated  husband.  "I  fancy 
I  see  myself  prancin'  about  in  the  sleeping 
apartment  of  two  ladies  whom  I  know  and 
who  know  me,  draggin'  'em  out  of  bed  with 
a  pistol  to  their  heads." 

There  was  a  flash  in  the  eyes  that  Hughes 
turned  on  him,  and  his  hands  unconsciously 
closed. 

"Why,  what  nonsense  you  do  talk,  Sam," 
said  his  wife.  "It's  as  simple  as  can  be. 
You  and  Mr.  Hughes  will  just  boost  me  up 
on  that  top  veranda,  and  you'll  stay  down  at 
the  bottom  of  the  ladder.  Then  I'll  tip-toe 
[163] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


across  the  battlement  to  their  French  win- 
dow—" 

"The  'bat-tle-ment'!"  snorted  her  hus- 
band. 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  Then  I'll 
have  a  'jimmy'  with  me,  and  I'll  force  the 
window — quietly,  you  know." 

"The  lady  cracksman!"  sarcastically  from 
"Sam." 

"Then" — elaborately  ignoring  her  hus- 
band and  addressing  Hughes — "I'll  wake 
them!  I'll  tell  them  not  to  dare  to  scream 
— I'll  tell  them  I'm  a  friend  and  that  there 
are  more  friends  below,  but  that  a  great  dan- 
ger threatens  them,  and  that  I  can't  answer 
questions  then;  and  that  they  must  dress 
themselves  at  once  and  come  with  me;  and 
that  they  will  not  be  hurt  if  they  keep  quiet!" 

"But  what  if  they  do  holler?"  asked  her 
husband. 

"Then  I'll  flourish  my  revolver,"  with  a 
fine  air  of  bravado. 

Hughes  looked  alarmed.  "Ought  you  to 
have  a  revolver,  do  you  think?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  won't  have  it  loaded — I  wouldn't 
[  164] 


THE  RESCUE  PARTY 


for  the  world,"  she  assured  him.     "Why,  it 
might  go  off." 

"They'll  recognise  your  voice,  as  sure  as 
eggs,"  snarled  her  husband. 

"No,  they  won't.  I'll  talk  gruff— like- 
this :  Dead-women-tell-no-tales !" 

"You  must  be  careful  not  to  frighten 
them,  mustn't  you?"  said  H'ughes. 

"Only  just  enough  to  keep  them  quiet," 
she  answered,  airily.  "And  then  if  they  do 
recognise  me,  I'll  just  sit  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  and  tell  them  all  about  it — how 
they  are  in  the  power  of  a  villain  and  don't 
know  it,  and  how  anxious  all  their  friends 
are,  and  how  their  only  chance  is  to  escape 
at  once  with  me,  and  that  my  husband  is 
waiting  outside  to  help,  and  all  that,  you 
know." 

"And  what'll  we  be  doing  all  this  time?" 
asked  "Sam." 

"Standing  to  your  posts  like  true  knights 
in  the  service  of  distressed  beauty,"  answered 
his  wife,  with  a  gaiety  that  was  meant  to 
cover  good  advice. 

[165] 


THE  PEXSIONNAIRES 


"Standing  in  the  wet  grass  like  true  idiots, 
catching  rheumatism,"  was  his  rendering. 

"Now,  Mr.  Hughes,"  she  said,  turning  to 
him  with  the  air  of  coming  at  last  to  the 
practical  side  of  it;  "you've  got  to  get  me 
a  'jimmy'  and  a  revolver — and  a  dark  lan- 
tern— and  a  safe  ladder;  and  I'll  pin  up  my 
skirt — Oh,  and  a  mask — and  I'll  wear  a 
waterproof,  and  do  my  hair  tight — and  you 
better  be  masked,  too;  at  first,  anyway. 
And,  Sam,  you  see  about  the  boat  and  store 
it  with — let  me  see! — a  basket  of  potatoes, 
four  loaves  of  bread — no,  six  loaves — some 
beaf -steak — oh,  and  plenty  of  canned  goods ; 
and  tea  and  sugar  and  butter  and — " 

"What  is  this — a  Polar  expedition?"  de- 
manded her  husband,  indignantly.  "And 
where  am  I  to  get  all  these  things  at  this 
hour?" 

His  wife  looked  at  him  with  suppressed 
opinions  bristling  from  her  face.  "When  a 
lady  asks — "  she  began,  and  then  gave  it  up 
with  a  little  sigh  of  futility.  "Mr.  Hughes," 
she  added,  impressively,  "hasn't  asked  me 
where  to  get  a  'jimmy'." 
[166] 


THE  RESCUE  PARTY 


"P'raps  he  knows  a  burglar  off-duty," 
growled  the  unabashed  "Sam,"  whereat  Mr. 
Hughes  allowed  himself  the  first  smile  of 
the  night.  After  all,  was  it  not  too  absurd? 
But  if  not  this,  what?  He  could  hear  a 
sweet  voice — a  voice  whose  cadences  moved 
him  to  his  soul's  centre — saying,  "Out  there 
in  the  purple  dark  I  seem  to  see  a  great  god 
sleeping";  and  then  Werner's  voice  reply- 
ing, "You  see  him  because  he  is  there."  This 
fantastic  plan  of  the  Maine  lady's  might  suc- 
ceed ;  and,  knowing  no  other,  he  would  try  it. 

So  he  went  out  to  improvise  a  "jimmy" 
and  carefully  unload  his  revolver.  He  had 
a  carnival  mask  that  would  do  for  the  lady, 
while  he  could  use  a  handkerchief  himself — 
but  the  ladder,  that  was  the  puzzler!  "Sam" 
found  a  man  with  a  boat  and  hired  them  both 
for  an  indefinite  time — they  would  keep  the 
man  at  the  house  and  he  could  tell  nothing; 
then  he  filled  the  boat  with  supplies  and  told 
the  boatman  to  await  him  opposite  the 
Casino  from  one  in  the  morning  until  he 
came. 

"Ha!    All  goes  well!"  said  the  lady  from 

[167] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


Maine  when  they  had  reported  to  her ;  and  at 
a  little  before  one  they  let  themselves  out  of 
the  hotel,  Hughes  two  minutes  ahead.  He 
had  stolen  a  ladder  and  hidden  it  in  the  gar- 
den of  the  "pension." 

"Let's  go  round  the  easy  way,"  suggested 
"Sam." 

"No.  No.  That's  through  that  ghastly 
little  grave-yard,"  said  his  wife;  "and  I  just 
won't  go  through  a  grave-yard  at  midnight." 

"Pshaw  1     It  won't  hurt  you." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  it." 

"You're  a  pretty  house-breaker,  you  are! 
— afraid  of  a  tombstone  1" 

"Well,  I'm  not  a  body-snatcher,"  was  her 
retort. 

Then  they  trudged  for  a  while  in  silence 
up  the  steep  road. 

"Isn't  this  really  romantic?"  gurgled  the 
lady  from  Maine.  "I  feel  like  a  knight  er- 
rant. So — so — ,  you  know." 

There  was  no  comment  on  this,  unless  a 
low  rumble  from  "Sam's"  direction  might 
be  taken  as  one.  After  a  little  he  spoke  on 
his  own  account: 

[168] 


THE  RESCUE  PARTY 


"I'll  be  dinged  if  I  like  this  early-in-the- 
morning  business,"  he  grumbled. 

"Sh — sh!"  whispered  his  wife;  "you 
mustn't  talk."  But  soon  she  said  to 
Hughes,  "My  mask  won't  stay  on.  It 
keeps  bobbing  down  over  my  mouth." 

"It  wants  tightening,  I  fancy,"  said 
Hughes;  and  he  laid  down  the  "jimmy"  and 
the  dark  lantern  while  he  tightened  it. 

"However  am  I  going  to  hold  a  'jimmy' 
and  a  lantern  and  a  revolver  in  my  two 
hands?"  she  now  enquired  anxiously. 

"Carry  your  revolver  in  your  teeth,"  sar- 
donically suggested  her  husband.  "It  will 
keep  you  from  betraying  yourself  by  talk- 
ing." 

"Keep  it  in  your  pocket,"  diplomatically 
proposed  Hughes. 

"Well,  then,  I'll  have  to  lay  down  the 
'jimmy'  and  the  lantern  when  I  want  to 
take  it  out,"  she  fretted;  "it  takes  two  hands 
to  get  anything  out  of  a  woman's  pocket, 
you  know;  and  they  would  scream  their 
heads  off  while  I  was  doing  it." 

"We  should  have  gone  to  some  good  'night 
[169] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


school'  in  burglary  before  we  tried  this,"  was 
her  husband's  opinion.  "They'd  teach  you 
how  to  carry  yer  tools." 

"You  might  leave  the  'jimmy'  outside," 
said  Hughes.  "Yoli  won't  need  that  in  the 
room." 

"Tarnation!  There  comes  my  mask  down 
again.  If  it  does  that  in  the  room,  however 
am  I  to  get  it  up  ?  I  could  never  push  it  up 
with  the  revolver  barrel.  Ugh!" 

"It  is  not  loaded,"  Hughes  assured  her. 

"No;  but  it's  co-old." 

When  they  got  to  the  garden  they  walked 
on  tip-toe,  and  each  thought  that  the  others 
were  making  a  terrific  noise.  Pebbles 
would  crunch  and  even  roll;  and  the  ladder 
the  men  were  now  carrying  up  the  path 
scraped  against  the  branches  of  the  trees  and 
even  banged  on  the  steps.  But  they  roused 
no  one  and,  after  a  time,  stood  in  the  open 
space  before  the  house,  now  dark,  tall  and 
silent.  Hughes  lifted  the  ladder  into  place 
against  the  second  veranda. 

"W— will  it  hold?"  asked  the  lady  from 
[170] 


THE  RESCUE  PARTY 


Maine,  chattering — whether  with  cold  or 
with  nerves,  who  shall  say? 

"Yes,"  said  her  husband,  testily;  "if 
you're  fool  enough  to  go  up  it." 

"Is  it — is  it — s-safe,  do  you  think,  Mr. 
Hughes?"  she  repeated. 

"Perfectly,"  said  Hughes,  calmly.  "And 
we'U  hold  it." 

"Now  give  me  the  things,"  she  said,  and 
put  the  revolver  carefully  in  her  pocket. 
"Now  light  the  lantern,"  in  a  tremulous 
whisper,  and  she  picked  up  the  "jimmy"  and 
held  it  firmly  in  her  right  hand.  "Isn't  this 

f-fine?"  she  went  on.  "So  old  world — 
^^ » 

Just  then  her  husband  sneezed  loudly,  and 
showed  signs  of  doing  it  again. 

"Don't  do  that!"  in  the  shrillest,  fiercest 
whisper.  "Don't  do  that  again,  I  tell  you. 
Do  you  want  to  spoil  everything?" 

"I  want  to  go  to  bed,"  he  said,  gloomily. 

"You've  no  romance  in  you — no  spirit — " 

"Not  a  drop,"  mournfully  wiping  his 
nose. 

[171] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"Here's  the  lantern,  Madame,"  said 
Hughes. 

"Thank  you  s-so  much" — taking  it  in  her 
left  hand  and  moving  toward  the  ladder. 
Then  suddenly— 

"Oh!  Oh!  I  can't  go.  We'll  have  to  give 
it  up." 

"Why?"  asked  Hughes. 

"Why" — almost  crying — '"with  these 
things  in  my  hands,  I  can't  hold  up  my 
skirts  to — to  climb  the  ladder.  You  see— 
you  see  now  how  we  women  are  handicapped 
in  life." 

"Sam"  grinned  unfeelingly.  "Can't  com- 
pete in  the  burglary  business,  eh?"  he  said. 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Hughes,  "I  quite 
forgot.  I'll  take  them  up  for  you.  I'll  go 
first  and  leave  them  on  the  veranda." 

"And  you'll  have  to  come  up  for  them 
afterwards." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Hughes,  pocketing  the 
house-breaking  "kit"  and  starting  up  the 
ladder.  At  the  top,  he  found  it  rather  dif- 
ficult to  get  down  inside  the  railing ;  so,  lean- 
ing over,  he  whispered: 
[172] 


THE  RESCUE  PARTY 


"You'd  better  come  up  while  I'm  here, 
and  let  me  give  you  a  hand  off  the  ladder." 

"All  right,"  whispered  the  lady  from 
Maine,  and  started  heavily  up  the  ladder, 
which  creaked  and  bumped  and  swayed  un- 
der her. 

"Hold  it  tight,  Sam,"  she  hissed  down  ur- 
gently. 

"Oh,  I'm  holdin'  it,"  he  assured  her  un- 
graciously. "This  personally  conducted 
burglary  business  is  a  screaming  farce." 

"I'll  wake  'em  sure,"  she  muttered  to  her- 
self. "There's  my  water-proof  caught!  Oh, 
dear! — My!  How  far  is  it? — This  ladder 
will  fall — I  can  never  ask  them  to  come 
down  it — Oh,  Mr.  Hughes,  so  glad  to  get — 
Oh,  but  you  will  have  to  be  grateful  to  me 
for  this!" 

"You're  doing  bravely,"  he  assured  her, 
helping  her  down.  "Now  get  your  breath 
and  calm  yourself  before  you  begin  on  the 
window."  And  with  a  doubtful,  may-God- 
help-us  look  about,  he  disappeared  down  the 
ladder. 

The  lady  from  Maine  leaned  on  the  rail- 
[173] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


ing  and  rested.  It  was  so  quiet  that  she 
could  hear  the  ripples  of  the  lake  break  on 
the  strand  away  below.  Gradually  her  ex- 
citement subsided,  and  the  shifting  of  her 
husband's  boots  on  the  gravel  beneath 
warned  her  that  time  was  passing.  So 
pushing  her  mask  into  place  and  picking  up 
the  "jimmy"  and  the  closed  dark  lantern, 
she  approached  the  window.  First  she  put 
down  the  "jimmy"  and  opened  the  lantern 
slide,  when  a  shaft  of  light  danced  over  the 
trees.  "My!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  suppressed 
voice,  and  turned  it  quickly  on  the  window, 
when  it  flooded  the  room.  "Goodness!"  and 
she  shut  it  off  with  a  sharp  click,  and  then 
waited  with  a  thumping  heart  to  see  if  she 
had  wakened  anybody. 

"Don't  need  a  light  anyway,"  she  assured 
herself.  "I'll  just  pry  the  window  open." 
So  she  adjusted  the  "jimmy"  and  applied 
her  strength. 

Bang!  Crash!!  To  her  excited  ears  it 
sounded  as  if  the  Crystal  Palace  had  fallen 
in;  and  then  a  howl  of  dismay  came  from 
within  the  room. 

[174] 


THE  RESCUE  PARTY 


"Hush!  Hush!"  she  cried,  excitedly 
pushing  her  way  through  the  swaying  win- 
dows. "Hush-sh!  Or  you  will  wake  the 
people  in  the  house!"  But  even  this  con- 
tingency did  not  appear  to  still  them,  for  the 
howl  broke  out  louder  and  more  hopeless 
than  before,  and  several  different  qualities 
of  piercing  screams  joined  it.  "What  is  it?" 
asked  a  sleepy  voice.  "We  are  being 
killed,"  wailed  some  one  in  answer. 

"Excuse  me!  I'm  in  the  wrong  room," 
cried  the  lady  from  Maine,  now  quite  flus- 
tered; and  she  rushed  out  on  the  veranda. 
But  she  was  mistaken — it  was  the  right 
room.  Only  the  Vassar  party  had  come 
back  unexpectedly  that  evening;  and,  it  be- 
ing a  large  room,  the  landlady  had  borrowed 
it  from  the  Murneys  to  put  them  all  into  it, 
that  being  the  best  she  could  do  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment. 

Outside,  the  lady  from  Maine  paused  in 
perturbation. 

"Why — it's — a — woman,"  she  heard  a 
voice,  weighted  down  with  astonishment, 
exclaim  within  the  room. 

[175] 


THE  PENSIONNAIE.ES 


"And  an  American,  too,  I'm  sure,"  said 
another. 

"It's  Mrs.  Murney  mistaking  her  room," 
conjectured  a  third. 

"But  she  wouldn't  come  in  the  window," 
was  snapped  out. 

"Get  up,  Jennie,  and  see!  You're  near 
the  window,"  urged  a  shaking,  nervous 
voice.  To  this  there  was  no  response,  and 
an  awful  silence  followed. 

"Come  down,  you  old  fool,"  came  in 
hushed  but  wrathful  accents  from  below. 

"Bring  the  things,"  whispered  Hughes. 

So  she  stepped  back  to  the  window  to  get 
them  when  another  howl  went  up:  "She's 
coming  again!  She's  coming  again!"  it 
wailed.  Then  rose  a  German  voice,  strong 
and  resonant,  calling  for  help  and  police  and 
other  things  in  German.  But  the  lady  from 
Maine  heroically  grabbed  up  the  lantern  and 
the  "jimmy,"  and,  rushing  to  the  edge, 
hurled  them  at  Hughes,  crying,  "There  they 
are!"  and  then  began  the  perilous  journey 
down  the  ladder. 

"Hurry!  Hurry!  Hurry!"  hissed  her  hus- 
[176] 


THE  RESCUE  PARTY 


band;  and  once  upon  the  ground,  he  caught 
her  arm  and  ran  her  at  a  breakneck  pace 
down  the  winding  path.  Hughes  picked  up 
the  lantern  and  "jimmy"  and  followed 
qUietly;  and  now  lights  were  appearing  at 
the  windows,  and  a  maid  was  leaning  out  of 
an  upper  casement  and  calling  upon  the  po- 
lice to  arrest  the  robbers. 

This  might  readily  have  happened  before 
the  skurrying  three  reached  their  hotel,  if 
the  whole  night  force  in  that  part  of  the 
city  had  not  been  waiting  with  the  public- 
spirited  boatman  opposite  the  Casino  to  ar- 
rest the  suspicious  character  who  had  hired 
a  boat  for  the  astonishing  hour  of  1  a.  m., 
and  then  secretly  victualled  it  as  if  for  a 
voyage.  That  looked  like  kidnapping;  and 
the  boatman  had  hastened  to  inform  the 
police,  and  the  police  had  gathered  in  full 
force  to  trap  the  villain. 


[177] 


CHAPTER  XVI 


A  Lady  Burglar 

THE  first  person  to  reach  the  door  of  the 
vociferating  Vassarites  was  the  young 
American  husband. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  demanded,  rat- 
tling the  door  vigorously. 

They  all  told  him  at  once  and  each  at  the 
top  of  her  voice  ;  so  that  he  was  still  in  doubt. 

"Shall  I  break  in?"  he  asked;  but  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  chorused  "No!" 

"Oh,"  he  said,  knowing  less  what  to  do 
than  ever. 

"They're  on  the  veranda,"  some  one 
shrilled  faintly. 

"Who?"  he  asked  promptly. 

"A  lady,"  was  the  astonishing  response. 

"What  is  the  trouble?"  came  from  behind 
him.  It  was  the  Unruffled  voice  of  the 
landlady. 

"There's  a  lady  on  the  veranda,"  he  ex- 
[178] 


A  LADY  BURGLAR 


plained,  as  if  in  doubt  of  his  own  statement. 

"Well,  can  she  not  get  in?"  asked  the 
landlady  in  amazement. 

At  this  the  French  doctor  arrived  from 
down  stairs  at  a  breathless  trot,  still  button- 
ing his  shirt,  and  demanded  in  excited 
French  the  cause  of  the  disturbance.  Had 
any  one  fainted? 

The  landlady  answered  in  disgusted 
French  that  the  American  gentleman  said 
there  was  a  lady  on  the  veranda  who  wanted 
to  get  in. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  cried  the  Doctor,  still  in 
French,  "Why  don't  they  let  her  in,  the  poor 
little  thing!" 

The  landlady  pounded  on  the  door  and 
then  asked  in  English,  "Don't  you  know 
how  to  open  the  window?" 

"It  is  open,"  cried  several  of  them.  "She 
broke  it  open,"  one  added  by  way  of  further 
horrification. 

"Oh;  and  is  she  in  now?"  the  landlady 
asked  in  a  tone  which  indicated  that  all  this 
would  be  charged  in  the  bill. 

A  confused  soprano  babel,  which  seemed 
[179] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


to  be  a  negative,  arose  at  this;  and  then  the 
voice  of  the  Fraulein,  "Keep  quiet  and  I  will 
explain,"  which  she  did  fully  and  in  Ger- 
man. 

'  'Zo' !"  said  the  landlady ;  and  she  went  off 
briskly  to  rush  the  servants  around  to  the 
front  to  see  if  they  could  catch  the  mys- 
teriotis  lady  burglar,  while  the  Frenchman 
explained  the  situation  to  the  American. 

"She's  no  lady  anyway,"  was  his  laconic 
verdict. 

"She  was,"  said  one  of  the  girls,  earnestly, 
from  behind  the  door;  "and  an  American 
lady,  too." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Heard  her  speak." 

"  U  Americaine  terrible''  marvelled  the 
Frenchman. 

It  was  an  excited  party  that  came  early  to 
breakfast  that  morning.  The  exclamatory 
Vassarites  had  decided  by  then  not  only  that 
the  lady  burglar  was  an  American,  but  that 
they  had  heard  her  voice  somewhere  before. 

"It  seemed  as  familiar  to  me  as  possible," 
said  one  of  them. 

[180] 


A  LADY  BURGLAR 


"That  was  because  it  was  American,"  ex- 
plained Herr  Werner,  who  had  slept  all 
through  the  disturbance,  his  room  being  at 
the  back  of  the  house. 

"Do  all  Americans  talk  alike  to  you?" 
asked  another  with  an  enquiring  laugh. 

Herr  Werner  denied  this,  but  explained 
at  some  length  that  they,  naturally  expect- 
ing to  hear  a  native  voice  under  such  circum- 
stances, found  something  strangely  familiar 
in  the  ^unexpected  American  accents. 

"Americans,"  said  the  French  doctor, 
"have  not  cut  the  connection  between  their 
emotions  and  their  vocal  cords,  as  the  Eng- 
lish have." 

"Nor  have  they,"  acidly  remarked  the 
Amazon,  "substituted  their  emotions  for 
their  judgment." 

"Can  you  anything  on  the  gallery  this 
morning  see?"  asked  the  German  girl,  and 
the  conversation  went  back  to  the  great 
event.  The  servants  had  found  a  ladder 
standing  against  the  balcony,  the  marks  of 
much  trampling  on  the  gravel,  the  catalogue 
[181] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


of  a  Lucerne  porcelain  dealer — and  that 
was  all. 

"I  think  it  was  a  foreigner,"  said  the  land- 
lady, with  a  little  smile;  "for  the  prices  on 
the  catalogue  were  intended  for  tourists." 

"Oh,  ho!"  cried  the  American  husband. 
"That  is  a  new  touch  in  detective  work. 
Think  of  a  criminal  traced  by  the  prices 
quoted  to  him  in  estimates  found  in  his 
pockets." 

Jessica  and  Mrs.  Murney  went  to  Herr 
Vogt's  after  breakfast  for  the  regular  les- 
son, and  found  him  full  of  a  plan  for  going 
at  once  to  Paris.  Jessica,  he  said,  was  now 
ready  to  commence  her  career,  and  Paris 
was  both  a  good  stage  for  her  debut  and  a 
capital  place  to  get  a  sort  of  finishing  var- 
nish by  studying  the  great  artists  of  the 
French  opera.  He  should  soon  be  back  in 
ODresden,  and  the  engagements  for  the 
Parisian  season  were  now  being  made — two 
good  reasons  why  their  start  for  Paris 
must  be  made  immediately. 

"Paris,"  he  said,  "  is  where  you  should 
begin  for  New  York.  It  is  no  better  than 
[182] 


A  LADY  BURGLAR 


Dresden — nein!  neinl — Dresden  incompar- 
able, out  of  sight,  is — but  for  New  York, 
Paris  the  better  is  known." 

The  Murneys  were  amazed.  They  had 
just  begun  to  feel  at  home  in  their  Lucerne 
"pension,"  and  Jessica  never  had  experi- 
enced more  keenly  the  exaltation  of  the 
great  in  heart.  To  leave  the  Alps,  for  flat, 
clattering,  pushing  Paris!  She  felt  her 
spirits  sink  at  the  thought.  Again  she  must 
hunt  through  muddy,  sticky  streets  for  a 
new  "pension"  —  again  she  must  face  a 
strange  language  of  which  she  knew  little — 

But  Herr  Vogt  was  going  on  to  say  that 
they  would  go  together  to  Paris ;  that  he  had 
a  place  for  them,  cheerful,  home-like,  artis- 
tic; that  they  would  to  the  great  opera  go, 
again  and  again  —  a  temple  where  music 
could  be  worthily  worshipped;  that  she  her- 
self should  sing  to  the  never-could-they-get- 
done  applauding  French;  and  then  to  New 
York  and  fame  and  fortune. 

Jessica  flushed  to  the'  edge  of  her  silken 
black  hair,  for  the  great  Herr  Vogt  was  to 
her  the  high-priest  of  song;  and  his  words 
[183] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


were  not  flattery,  for  those  who  dwell  on  the 
altar  never  stoop  to  flatter.  And  Mrs. 
Murney  smiled  the  quiet,  modest  smile  she 
was  practising  for  that  spacious  drawing- 
room  on  Murray  Hill. 


[184] 


CHAPTER   XVII 
T 

"Had  I  a  Chance?" 

THAT  afternoon  Mr.  Hughes  walked  up 
the  gravel  path  he  had  hurried  down  the 
night  before,  and  called  on  the  Murneys. 
He  felt  a  slight  touch  of  pleasant  elation  at 
the  risk  he  was  running ;  but  neither  of  the 
ladies  so  much  as  mentioned  the  previous 
night's  disturbance — and,  of  course,  he 
could  know  nothing  of  it.  The  truth  was 
that  they  were  too  full  of  the  projected 
move  to  Paris  where  they  were  to  hear  great 
music,  and  get  a  French  finish  to  their  Ger- 
man ground- work  —  and,  perhaps,  sing  a 
little  themselves.  They  said  nothing  about 
Herr  Werner  in  this  connection,  but  he  felt 
an  oppressive  certainty  that  the  ballooning 
German  would  follow  them,  if,  indeed,  he 
was  not  at  the  bottom  of  the  new  plan. 
Herr  Vogt,  who  was  a  fellow-German, 
seemed  to  have  the  whole  affair  in  charge, 
[185] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


the  ladies  not  even  knowing  where  they  were 
to  live.  It  was  not  like  Americans  in  their 
senses  to  trust  such  details  to  an  impractical 
German  music  teacher. 

After  a  time  Mrs.  Murney  went  indoors, 
and  the  afternoon  shadows  began  to  fall 
into  the  broken  mountain  masses  across  the 
lake.  The  ladies  had  talked  as  if  they  might 
leave  for  Paris  at  a  day's  notice;  and,  even 
if  he  could  get  their  address,  he  did  not 
like  to  think  of  the  figure  his  self-respect 
would  cut  if  he  followed  them  in  purposeless 
fashion  again.  Jessica  had  had  little  to  say 
since  her  mother  had  left  them;  for  she  was 
in  the  lotus  mood  of  silence,  her  eyes  resting 
dreamily  on  the  play  of  light  and  shade  over 
the  wide  scene  before  her.  Hughes  looked 
at  her  cheek,  and  thought,  with  a  movement 
of  pity,  that  it  was  pale;  then  at  her  pose 
and,  with  a  sudden,  furious,  inner  anger, 
cursed  it  as  sentimental — as  Werneresque. 
What  could  he  do  to  rescue  her  from  that 
impassive,  blonde  vampire?  Her  hand 
that  lay  in  her  lap  nestled  itself  a  little  more 
cosily  among  the  folds  of  her  dress,  thus 
[186] 


'HAD  I  A  CHANCE?" 


calling  the  attention  of  his  wandering  eyes. 
It  had  a  strange  familiarity  for  him.  He 
had  so  often  looked  at  it,  half -unconsciously, 
with  a  subtle  sense  of  its  appealing  beauty. 
He  had  watched  it  weaving  together  the 
flowers  of  his  wreaths;  he  had  seen  it,  lithe 
and  quick  and  dark,  playing  a  mock  melody 
on  the  net  of  her  tennis  racket;  and  now  he 
saw  it,  inert  and  relaxed  but  of  a  shapeli- 
ness that  called  something  to  life  at  the  seat 
of  those  emotions  whose  language  is  the 
caress. 

In  a  moment,  the  memory  surged  up  in 
him  that  what  he  wanted  was  no  mere  rescue 
from  Werner,  but  possession  for  himself.  And 
did  he  know  now  any  other  even  possible 
way  of  accomplishing  the  rescue?  Still  this 
plan  had  itself  the  appearance  of  the  impos- 
sible; for  surely  his  case  was  hopeless  while 
she  sat  under  the  spell  of  Werner!  But 
there  was  the  odd  chance,  and  he  had  an  in- 
nate love  for  the  odd  chance.  And  then  Jessi- 
ca should  at  least  know  that  a  lover  stood  at 
her  hand,  and  would  stand  there  so  long  as 
it  was  in  him  to  stand  anywhere.  The  day 
[187] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


might  come  when  she  would  feel  the  need 
of  him. 

But  the  plan  was  hard  trying.  The  con- 
versation would  not  be  led  so  much  as  in  the 
direction  of  a  tender  avowal;  and  there  was 
imminent  danger  that  Mrs.  Murney  would 
abandon  her  attempt,  audible  from  the 
drawing-room,  to  convince  the  young  Amer- 
ican wife  that  where  the  Germans  differed 
from  the  Americans  they  were  patently  and 
wilfully  in  the  wrong,  and  come  out  on  the 
veranda.  Then  Jessica's  manner,  at  times, 
seemed  to  take  her  out  of  his  reach;  but  he 
felt  that  that  would  not  be  so,  once  she  was 
his  and  Werner  were  banished. 

"Miss  Murney,"  he  broke  in  at  last,  fac- 
ing the  plunge,  "I  have  hardly  a  fighting 
chance,  I  know;  but  I  wish  you  would  tell 
me,  for  my  comfort,  one  thing.  Do  you 
think — or — eh! — rather,  did  you  ever  think 
— of  me — of  me  as  a  lover?"  It  was  a  quick 
change  from  the  present  to  the  past  tense — 
as  quick  as  the  "side-stepping"  of  a  boxer 
to  avoid  a  blow. 

Jessica  looked  swiftly  at  him,  but  it  was 
[188] 


'HAD  I  A  CHANCE? 


plain  that  the  summoning  of  her  mind  back 
from  the  awing  Alpine  scene  to  his  ques- 
tion was  a  slower  business. 

"That  is  a  queer  way  to  propose,  isn't  it?" 
and  he  smiled  feebly ;  then  his  face  drew  into 
a  stern  earnestness,  and  he  said:  "But  I 
love  you,  and  I  want  you  to  know  it — and— 
with  a  rush  of  anger — "I  know  well  that  you 
are  being  taken  from  me  by  black  means." 

"Taken  from  you?"  quoted  Jessica  in  of- 
fended surprise. 

"Yes,"  he  said  doggedly,  and  then, 
"Please  answer  my  question — strange  as  it 
is.  It  has  a  purpose.  Search  your  mem- 
ory, for  God's  sake — for  all  our  sakes — and 
answer  it  truthfully."  His  voice  had  the 
ring  of  command,  but  his  eyes  shone  with 
the  humbleness  of  supplication. 

Jessica,  with  a  woman's  true  instinct, 
gave  heed  to  the  eyes.  "I  am  afraid,"  she 
began  gently,  "that  you  and  I  are  not  ex- 
actly suited  to— 

"No;  no!"  he  interrupted;  "that  was  not 
my  question.     I  know  I've  no  chance  now. 
But  hadn't  I  once?     Forgive  me  for  asking 
[189  ] 


THE    PENSIONNAIRES 


so  strange  a  question,  b'ut  do  answer  it!" 
The  supplication  had  now  got  into  his  voice. 

Jessica  considered.  An  enlivened  im- 
agination loves  to  toy  with  the  past  of  its 
possessor.  Was  there  ever  a  time  when  she 
could  have  thought  of  Hughes  as  a  husband 
without  this  dread  that  he  would  stand,  an 
earth-bound  figure,  between  her  and  the 
beautiful  in  life?  Undoubtedly,  there  was. 
That  other  Jessica  of  the  valley — and  the 
mad  tennis  court — would  have  felt  no  such 
fear,  at  all  events.  In  fact,  she  had  liked 
very  much  the  nonchalant,  capable,  quizzical 
Hughes;  and  Jessica  could  hardly  keep 
from  smiling  at  the  oddness  of  her  self- 
analysis  while  Hughes  waited  in  stern,  re- 
served patience  for  his  answer.  But  could 

she  say  this  to  him?  It  was  so — so Then 

she  looked  at  him  and  was  touched  by  the 
gray  suffering  which  even  his  resolute  self- 
suppression  could  not  keep  from  his  face. 

"Mr.  Hughes,"  she  said  in  a  voice  as  soft 
in  touch  as  a  grieving  mother's,  "I  think 
there  was  once  a  time — once  before  my 
[190] 


'HAD  I  A  CHANCE? 


awakening — when  we  could  have  been  bet- 
ter friends." 

Now  that  he  had  got  his  answer,  his  mind 
seemed  to  go  to  pieces.  There  were  things 
in  plenty  that  he  ought  to  say — something 
about  that  "awakening,"  for  instance — but 
he  could  get  none  of  them  in  marching 
order.  That  damnable  past  tense  blocked 
the  gateway  of  his  intelligence. 

"And  now?"  was  what  he  said — what  he 
cried,  his  reserve  for  once  all  gone,  and  the 
man  of  him  looking  out  from  his  strong  face 
in  stark  earnestness  of  vital  questioning 
upon  the  woman  in  her. 

"And  now!"  she  echoed,  emptily,  timidly, 
the  ancient  fear  of  woman  in  the  presence 
of  a  compelling  suitor  cowing  her  modern 
spirit  for  a  moment. 

At  the  sight  of  her  shrinking,  a  sort  of 
shame  seized  him. 

"Forgive  me  again,"  he  pleaded.  "I  am 
badgering  you  to  no  purpose.  I  have  had 
my  answer.  If  I  could  only  believe  it  is 
you  who  have  given  it,  I  could  go  away  de- 
cently—" 

[191] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


At  his  resumption  of  the  modern  attitude, 
Jessica  regained  her  position  of  conven- 
tional superiority. 

"Mr.  Hughes,"  she  said,  calmly,  "you  are 
mistaken  in  supposing,  as  you  seem  to  do, 
that  I  am  not  thoroughly  myself— 

"You  are  not,"  he  interrupted  gloomily. 
"It  sounds  ridiculous  to  say  it  to  you,  but 
you  are  hypnotized." 

"Hypnotized?" 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  Hughes,  you  are  joking." 

"Never  was  more  serious  in  my  life." 

"Who  has  hypnotized  me?" 

"Herr  Werner." 

"Absurd  I"  and  Jessica  sprang  angrily  to 
her  feet. 

"Well,"  said  Hughes,  getting  up,  "as  we 
are  to  part,  it  perhaps  is  as  well  that  we 
should  part  this  way.  But  I  shall  tell  you 
the  truth  before  I  go.  That  villain  has 
made  you  a  copy  of  himself  with  all  his 
moony  nonsense.  You  were  as  sensible 
as—" 

[192] 


"HAD  I  A  CHANCE? 


"As  Mr.  Hughes  himself,  I  presume," 
she  broke  in,  ironically. 

He  straightened  back  as  if  he  had  been 
struck  a  blow;  and  then  stiffened  into  his 
habitual  reserve. 

"I  think  I  should  tell  you  some  truth," 
Jessica  went  on  in  a  voice  that  cut  out  her 
words  in  high  relief.  "I  was  a  girl  with  a 
splendid  gift,  but  very,  very  unworthy  of  it. 
Music  and  the  great  in  life  awakened  a  bet- 
ter self  in  me.  That  is  all.  Herr  Werner 
was  one  of  those  who  showed  me  where  the 
great  was  to  be  seen.  I  was  impatient  at 
it  myself  once,"  she  continued,  a  little  more 
kindly,  "when  I  looked  at  it  as  you  do  now." 

Hughes  had  not  moved  a  muscle  while  she 
talked.  Now  he  tossed  his  head.  "The 
great  in  life,"  he  remarked  savagely,  "is  be- 
yond my  ken,  I  suppose." 

"You  blind  your  eyes  to  it,"  she  respond- 
ed quickly. 

To  this  he  made  no  reply,  but  said,  after 
a  moment  of  silence,  in  what  might  have 
sounded  like  dull  repetition  to  some  ears, 
[193] 


THE    PENSIONNAIRES 


but  Jessica  knew     that     it  was  pain  that 
numbed  his  mind:— 

"Well,  I  have  my  answer — I  have — " 

Then  he  stopped.   "Either  you  or  I  are  mis- 
taken," he  began  in  another  key,  high  and 
tense.     "But  if    you    are    really    on    solid 
ground  up  among  your  clouds,  then  I  must 
jog  along  down  here  by  myself.     Yet — ? 
and  he  turned  his  deep  eyes  on  her  firmly— 
"if  you  ever  find  that  you  are  not,  you — 
you  can  count  on  me."     And  he  stood  look- 
ing at  her  with  the  effect  of  a  mighty  em- 
phasis. 

"Mr.  Hughes,"  and  she  impulsively  held 
out  both  her  hands  to  him,  "you're  not  go- 
ing— far?"  A  sudden,  unformed  fear  had 
shot  into  her  heart. 

"I  will  stay  at  your  elbow  if  you  want 
me,"  he  said  quickly,  taking  her  hands. 

But  the  fear  had  passed.  It  was  an  erup- 
tion of  that  lower  Jessica,  she  told  herself. 
"No,  no,"  she  said  slowly,  withdrawing  her 
hands,  which  he  instantly  released.  "You 
— you  are — what  can  I  say  to  you  that  will 
not  sound  false?  But  I  feel  that  in  your 
[194] 


'HAD  I  A  CHANCE?" 


esteem  I  have  something  that  I  cannot 
quite  let  go.  Though— 

"It  is  not  my  esteem,"  said  Hughes,  quiet- 
ly; "it  is  my  heart's  love;  and  you  can  never 
lose  it,  whether  you  will  or  no." 

Before  this  Jessica  was  dumb;  and  tears 
shone  over  her  lower  lids  ready  to  fall  if  her 
tenderness  so  much  as  breathed  again.  Once 
more  the  heart  within  her  wavered.  This 
was  a  man  clear  through.  But,  as  they  both 
gazed  in  their  helpless  silence  upon  the 
silent  Alps,  rose-tinted  now  on  the  distant 
snows  and  a  fathomless  green  in  the  lower 
depressions,  Jessica  felt  that  she  saw  what 
he  did  not;  and  that,  in  some  way,  that  must 
separate  them.  He  could  have  died  with 
the  Swiss  Guard,  she  knew;  but  would  he 
have  known  the  nobility  of  his  own  action? 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  her,  still  in  silence. 
She  laid  hers  softly  in  it. 

"Remember,"  he  said — and  he  tried  for  a 
careless  smile — "if  you  find  it  cloud-land 
after  all,  a  word  and  I  will  free  you  from  it, 
though  I  have  to  upset  the  European  Con- 
cert to  do  it.  Here,  I'll  scribble  you  my 
[195] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


father's  address," — and  he  did  so  on  one  of 
his  cards — "There!  That  will  always  find 
me."  He  took  her  hand  again,  and  the 
poor,  lifeless  smile  vanished  from  his  face— 
"God!  I  wish  you  had  a  brother." 
Then  he  gripped  her  hand  tight,  tighter 
than  he  knew;  and  again  he  strode  down 
the  gravel  path.  Jessica  watched  him  un- 
til he  disappeared,  straight,  square-shoul- 
dered, potent  to  the  last.  Then  she  turned 
to  the  Alps,  but  the  rose  was  now  blood-red 
and  the  fathomless  green  a  hungry  black. 
It  was  not  only  beautiful — it  was  terrible, 
menacing.  And  she  was  alone!  The  Man 
had  gone. 

Her  eyes  narrowed  with  an  unnamed  fear 
again;  and,  running  round  the  house,  she 
plunged  into  the  field  of  wild  flowers  just 
outside  the  gate,  carefully  keeping  the  bulk 
of  the  "pension"  between  her  and  the  awful 
Alps. 


[196] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

1" 
Werner  Awakes 

THE  next  day  at  luncheon  it  was  known 
that  the  Murneys  were  going  immediately 
to  Paris,  and  that  they  had  never  been  there 
before. 

"You  will  like  it,"  said  the  French  Doc- 
tor. "It  is  the  ideal  playground  for  people 
of  an  artistic  temperament." 

"You  will  see  the  dear,  delightful  art  stu- 
dents there,"  added  the  widow,  "with  their 
wide  trousers  and  their  wandering  hair." 

"You  will  do  more  than  see  them  if  you 
go  out  on  the  streets  alone,"  was  the  Ama- 
zon's contribution.  "Ugh!  The  greasy 
little  beasts!" 

"I    was  never  spoken    to  once     on    the 
streets  in  Paris,"   said  the  American  wife 
with  a  little  conscious  air  of  making  a  re- 
mark that  was  part  of  a  discussion. 
[197] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"You  were  always  with  your  husband,  I 
suppose,"  shot  back  the  Amazon. 

"Not  always!" 

"Pouf!"  exclaimed  the  French  Doctor. 
"Ladies  who  observe  the  customs  of  the 
country  are  not  annoyed  in  Paris — and 
great  allowance  is  now  being  made  for  the 
independent  habits  of  American  ladies." 

"Do  the  men  actually  speak  to  you  on  the 
street  in  Paris?"  asked  Jessica  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Of  course  they  do,"  said  the  Amazon, 
"and  they  step  on  your  toes,  and  sing  'tra-la- 
la-la!'  in  your  ears." 

"Awful!"  cried  Jessica. 

"You  must  not  go  out  alone,"  said  Herr 
Werner,  "nor  look  at  the  men.  That  is  all. 
Frenchmen  do  not  understand  that  young 
ladies  ever  go  out  alone." 

"In  England  it  is  the  same,"  snapped  out 
the  French  Doctor. 

"It  is  not,"  countered  the  Amazon 
bluntly. 

"Do     young     ladies     go     unchaperoned 
there?"  he  asked,  mildly. 
[198] 


WERNER  AWAKES 


"No,"  she  said;  "but  if  they  do,  they  are 
not  insulted." 

''Insulted!''  deprecated  the  French- 
man, extending  his  hands  and  tilting  his 
head.  f(Les  jeunes  hommes  are  only  play- 
ful— and,  as  I  tell  you,  they  generally  re- 
spect the  peculiarities  of  Americans  now." 

"It  is  a  playfulness  that  is  not  always  un- 
derstood, Doctor,"  observed  Herr  Werner. 

"True!"  returned  the  Doctor.  "Not  by 
the  races  that  never  play." 

"Sh-sh!"  whispered  Madam. 

'  'Never  play,'  "  picked  up  the  Amazon. 
"Englishmen  are  noted  for  their  devotion 
to  sports." 

"But  an  Englishman  does  not  play  at  his 
sports,"  expostulated  the  Frenchman.  "He 
works  at  them — furiously;  they  are  like 
little  sections  of  war.  You  go  to  the 
Thames  and  you  see  Englishmen  'playing' 
with  boats — stripped,  panting,  fighting  for 
first  place ;  you  go  to  Venice  and  you  will  see 
them  robe  themselves  in  gay  holiday  cos- 
tumes to  play  with  boats,  and  float  about  to 
music,  or  flutter  off  down  the  lagoon  like  a 
[199] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


flock  of  colored  birds.  Is  not  that  so?"  turn- 
ing to  the  Italian. 

"Yes,"  heartily  agreed  the  Italian.  "All 
Southern  races  are  playful — like  children," 
he  explained  as  by  way  of  excuse  for  the 
Northern  English;  and  then  went  on  to  tell 
of  some  river  fetes  he  had  seen  in  Siam. 
When  he  had  finished,  the  young  American 
husband  reverted  obliquely  to  the  old  topic 
by  saying  that  he  had  heard  a  Californian 
pronounce  "the  battle  of  flowers"  at  Nice 
"an  utter  fizzle."  "Why,"  he  had  said, 
"you  should  just  see  the  floral  chariots  we 
get  up  for  our  flower  parades  in  California. 
Nothing  to  touch  them  here,  I  can  tell  you." 
He  did  not  reckon  in  at  all,  added  the  Amer- 
ican, the  bushels  of  fun  the  Proven9als  got 
out  of  it. 

"That's  it,"  said  the  Frenchman.  "You 
Anglo-Saxons  are  a  great  people;  you  only 
take  pleasure  in  excelling — excelling — ex- 
celling! We  Latins  are  more  simple-mind- 
ed— or  is  it  more  civilised?" — with  a  bright 
smile — "We  are  not  always  wrestling  with 
each  other;  we  can  gather  flowers  and  toss 
[200] 


WERNER  AWAKES 


them  at  one  another,  and  get  great  gaiety 
out  of  it." 

"But  do  you  not  think,  Doctor,"  asked 
Herr  Werner,  "that  the  tossing  of  flowers 
is  a  child's  business  when  both  nature  and 
man  are  so  full  of  things  worth  giving  one's 
whole  mind  to?" 

"Do  you  never  relax?" 

"Rest  is  necessary,"  answered  Herr  Wer- 
ner, with  a  brisk  certainty  of  mien;  "but  I 
don't  go  to  the  nursery  for  it." 

"You  like  a  beer  garden  better,"  returned 
the  Doctor;  but  it  was  impossible  to  take 
offence  in  face  of  his  disarming  smile. 

The  departure  to  Paris  was  not  made 
quite  so  quickly  as  Herr  Werner  would  have 
liked;  for  Herr  Vogt  was  not  a  bird  to  take 
wing  in  a  minute.  He  had  much  to  arrange 
for;  many  boxes  to  pack  for  shipment  to 
Dresden,  and  many  precautions  to  take  lest 
he  should  find  himself  in  foreign  Paris  with- 
out a  proper  supply  of  familiar  comforts 
made  only  in  Germany.  The  Murneys  were 
ready  before  him,  and  Herr  Werner  could 
hardly  keep  the  secret  that  he  intended  to 
[201] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


follow.  Indeed,  he  was  tempted  to  join  the 
party  in  his  impatience  to  get  it  off ;  for  was 
not  the  clean-cut,  unperturbed  figure  of  the 
menacing  Hughes  to  be  seen  day  after  day 
on  the  wide  promenades  of  the  Quay?  But, 
luckily,  it  did  not  again  mount  the  gravel 
path — and  often  Herr  Werner  wondered 
why. 

The  lady  from  Maine  had  been  hurried 
off  to  the  Tyrol  by  her  alarmed  and  doubly- 
disgusted  husband  on  the  morning  after  the 
night  escapade. 

"I  don't  want  to  run  into  that  boatman 
again,"  he  said.  "He'd  have  me  up  for 
breach  of  contract  or  lunacy  or  something 
of  that  sort." 

"Well,  it  was  an  experience,"  said  the  lady 
from  Maine,  ecstatically,  as  she  bent  ener- 
getically over  her  dress-suit  case.  "I  guess 
few  tourists  ever  get  anything  of  that  sort." 

"I  should  hope  not,"  was  her  husband's 
hearty  comment.  "If  you  want  to  find 
people  who  have  done  that  kind  of  travel- 
ing, you'll  have  to  go  to  the  State  prison — 
and  it  will  be  fun  to  hear  you  crowing  over  a 
[202] 


WERNER  AWAKES 


man  who  has  never  'burgled'  outside  of  the 
New  England  States." 

"I  don't  regret  it,"  she  protested.  "It 
was  so  romantic  and — and  unusual — like  a 
scene  out  of  a  story  of  chivalry,  with  moated 
castles  and  turret  windows  and  champing 
steeds  and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

"You're  thinking  of  a  dime  novel,"  snort- 
ed "Sam."  "'Maggie,  the  Midnight  Mar- 
vel.' But  you'll  never  catch  me  again — I've 
had  my  fill  of  rescuing  distressed  females." 

"But  think  of  the  poor  girl,  Sam — and  of 
poor,  brave  Mr.  Hughes." 

"Think  of  that  boatman  eating  my  gro- 
ceries and  thanking  his  stars  that  my  keep- 
ers got  me  again  before  midnight." 

Hughes  bade  them  "Good  bye"  in  the 
secrecy  of  their  own  chamber,  and  promised 
the  lady  that  she  should  be  told  all  that 
might  happen  after  her  flight.  Her  hus- 
band said:  "All  I  ask  of  you  is  to  keep 
dark  what  happened  before  our  flight." 

"You  may  be  very  sure  I  will,"  said  Mr. 
Hughes;  and  they  believed  him.    He  might 
confess  a  crime,  but  never  an  absurdity. 
[203] 


THE  PENSIOXXAIRES 


The  last  night  before  the  Murneys  were 
to  start  for  Paris,  Herr  Werner  and  Jes- 
sica paced  their  "pension"  veranda,  reveling 
in  the  white  shine  of  the  moon  on  the  sleep- 
ing lake  and  the  indistinctly  outlined  moun- 
tains. 

"What  an  unreal  world  it  is!"  said  Jessi- 
ca. "It  must  have  been  on  moonlight  nights 
that  the  legends  of  the  supernatural  were 
born." 

"Unreal?"  questioned  Herr  Werner.  "It 
is  different  from  the  day;  but  which  is  the 
unreal?" 

And  with  this  thought  in  their  minds  they 
leaned  in  silence  on  the  veranda  railing, 
drinking  in  the  soft  beauty  of  the  mantled 
scene — mantled  by  a  shrouding  light  that 
covered  more  than  it  revealed.  And  they 
were  each  conscious  of  the  other — an  unusual 
experience.  The  morning  was  to  bring 
separation — Jessica  thought  that  it  might 
be  final.  Herr  Werner  knew  better,  but — 
Paris  was  another  world,  and  French  artists 
were  swift  to  woo  beautiful  women.  Was 
Paris  a  wise  choice  after  all?  Yet  with  their 
[204] 


long  acquaintance  and  their  common  love 
of  the  beautiful,  there  had  never  been  the 
faintest  approach  to  love-making  between 
them.  They  were  like  fellow-students  of  an 
entrancing  art — but  an  art  that  was  as  sex- 
less as  the  single-minded  study  of  the  nude. 
They  took  hands  without  a  thrill.  They 
saw  the  same  beauties,  and  knew  that  they 
alone  saw  them;  yet  felt  them  not  a  whit 
more  beautiful  for  that  fact.  Still  there 
was  close  companionship  between  them — a 
companionship  which  at  that  moment 
neither  of  them  had  with  any  one  else  in  the 
wide  world,  nor  felt  it  possible  to  have. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Herr  Werner,  "if  you 
will  really  like  Paris  as  well  as  this." 

"I  can't  think  it  possible,"  replied  Jes- 
sica. 

"I  never  have,"  went  on  Herr  Werner. 
"Paris  has  an  endless  variety  of  beauties, 
which,  however,  only  seem  to  tickle  my  sense 
of  the  beautiful.  This  fills  it — and  more." 

"Yet  if  one  is  to  do  anything  one's  self/' 
said  Jessica,  "I  suppose  that  Paris  is  the 
place  to  learn." 

[205] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"Yes,"  laughed  Herr  Werner.  "One 
can  marvel  at  an  Alp,  but  can  hardly  hope 
to  be  one." 

"I  shall  miss  you  in  Paris,"  said  Jessica 
quite  frankly;  and  then  she  wondered  if  she 
should  have  said  it. 

"I  shall  miss  you — very  m'uch — when  you 
go,"  replied  Herr  Werner  in  a  lower  tone, 
which  added  to  Jessica's  doubt  as  to  the  pro- 
priety of  her  naive  remark. 

Then  there  was  silence  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. "Miss  Murney,"  said  Herr  Wer- 
ner presently.  "Would  you  like  me  to 
come  to  Paris?" 

Jessica  felt  her  mind  leap  foolishly  at  the 
alarm  of  the  question,  as  she  might  have 
started  herself  at  a  threat  of  unlocated  dan- 
ger. Why  could  she  not  say — what  was 
the  truth — that  she  would  like  him  to  come, 
but  that  this  liking  had  no  suggestion  of  lov- 
ing about  it?  Yet  how  could  she? — it 
would  be  so  unmaidenly. 

Herr  Werner's  pulses  quickened  as  he 
saw  her  hesitate.  Hesitation  could  mean 
but  one  thing — the  question  had  a  tender 
[206] 


WERNER  AAVAKES 


side  to  her  mind;  and,  while  he  had  hardly 
intended  it  to  have,  he  was  a  man,  and  the 
sight  of  such  a  thought  in  a  woman's  mind 
called  forth  a  response  from  his. 

"You  need  not  answer,"  he  said  in  a  min- 
ute. "I  should  not  have  asked  it — but  I 
will  come." 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Jessica  impulsively.  "Not 
in  that  way!" 

"In  what  way?" 

"It  is  not  like  you  to  put  so  stupid  a  ques- 
tion," she  tossed  at  him  with  some  asperity. 

Abashed,  he  stood  in  silence. 

"But  if  you  are  coming  to  Paris — as  a 
friend,"  she  went  on  with  a  distinct  com- 
monplaceness  of  manner,  "I  am  sure  that  I 
shall  be  less  lonely." 

So  when  Herr  Werner  bade  the  Murneys 
and  Herr  Vogt  "au  revoir"  at  the  train 
next  day,  three  of  them  knew  that  he  had 
the  address  of  the  "pension"  in  the  Latin 
Quarter  in  his  pocket-book. 


[207] 


CHAPTER  XIX 


A  Latin  Quarter  "Pension" 

ON  an  unusually  wide  but  quiet  street 
winding  from  "Old  Boul  Mich"—  the  "ch" 
is  pronounced  soft  —  diagonally  across  the 
district  below  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  to 
staid  St.  Germain,  a  comfortable  Madame 
and  her  black-haired,  heavy-lidded  and 
artistic  daughter  managed  a  "pension"  for 
"permanents."  The  tourist  was  very  sel- 
dom to  be  found  there,  one  reason  being 
that  the  "pension"  was  not  known  in  sight- 
seeing circles.  Occasionally  an  American 
art  student,  on  a  holiday  home,  gave  the  ad- 
dress to  a  friend  who  had  been  fascinated  by 
his  Bohemian  tales  of  the  care-free,  uncon- 
ventional life  of  the  Latin  Quarter;  and  the 
friend  on  a  subsequent  tour  —  possibly  with 
his  wife  —  drove  up  the  empty,  blank-walled 
street  in  the  course  of  his  search  for  a  "pen- 
sion," but,  more  frequently  than  not,  all  the 
[208] 


A  LATIN  QUARTER  "PENSION" 

I  K 

rooms  were  taken.  He  would  get  a  look, 
however,  into  a  long  drawing-room  of  bar- 
baric furnishing;  orientally  draped  lounges 
piled  with  colored  cushions,  a  taut-stringed 
banjo  on  a  tumbled  centre  table,  a  shaggy 
skin  before  the  dull  grate  fire — if  the  day 
were  a  little  chill — well-used  pallets  and 
maul-sticks  hung  about  like  mementoes,  an 
open  piano  covered  with  music,  unframed 
canvases  on  the  walls — some  sketches  of 
heads,  others  impressionist  landscapes,  one 
a  warm-tinted  copy  of  Mercie's  "Venus." 
If  he  were  lucky,  he  would  also  chance  upon 
a  glimpse  into  one  of  the  rooms  which  might 
have  been  to  let;  the  den,  perhaps,  of  an 
artist  who  was  something  of  a  sybarite — a 
long  mirror  hidden  by  photographs  of  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  people  from  a  group 
of  the  artist's  chums  to  a  half-length  picture 
of  his  "model,"  from  Rosa  Bonheur  in  her 
blouse  to  the  latest  favorite  at  the  "Folies 
Bergere";  a  rose-wood  piano;  crossed  foils, 
tied  with  ribbon;  a  medley  of  velvet  gar- 
ments hanging  in  a  corner;  an  out-door 
sketching  outfit  on  the  bed ;  and  half -finished 
[209] 


THE    PENSIONNAIRES 


pictures  stuck  wherever  they  would  hold. 
Or  it  might  be  the  bare  room  of  a  student  at 
the  S  or  bonne  with  its  shelves  of  books;  its 
lounge  heaped  with  note-books ;  books,  face- 
down, on  the  table;  lurid  posters  on  the 
walls;  a  grate  full  of  crumpled  paper;  and 
a  variety  of  hats  on  the  bed. 

But,  in  any  case,  as  he  wound  around  the 
bicycles  in  the  passage  and  took  his  disap- 
pointed way  downstairs,  "Ma'am'selle," 
with  her  painty  fingers  and  her  restless, 
coquettish  eye,  assuring  him  with  a  flattering 
concern  of  manner  that  she  was  "so  very 
pained  that  there  is  not  one  room,"  he  would 
feel  confident  that  he  had  missed  thereby  half 
the  enjoyment  and  real  insight  into  life  that 
Paris  might  have  given  him. 

This  is  the  place  to  which  Herr  Werner 
had  sent  the  Murneys  and  Herr  Vogt,  they 
having  ascertained  by  telegraph  that  there 
were  rooms  for  the  party.  Herr  Werner 
had  been  there  himself  some  years  before, 
had  duly  fallen  in  love  with  "Ma'am'selle" 
and  then  had  fallen  out  again  when  he  per- 
ceived that  he  had  no  more  clue  to  her 
[210] 


A  LATIN  QUARTER  "PENSION" 

methods  of  thought  than  he  had  ability  to 
keep  pace  with  the  thought  itself.  Both 
the  "falling  in"  and  the  "falling  out"  were 
officially  unknown  to  Ma'am'selle,  who  took 
no  notice  of  such  things  unless  she  was  told 
of  them,  as  she  usually  was  when  they  hap- 
pened to  her  fellow-countrymen  and  some- 
times when  they  didn't. 

It  was  night  when  the  party  got  to  Paris, 
and  the  rain  was  falling.  But  the  streets, 
as  their  horse  splashed  along,  seemed  walled 
with  bright  windows  and  hung  with  moony 
planets  and  paved  with  bars  of  liquid  light. 
Then  their  cab  rolled  out  into  the  dark,  and 
they  looked  through  the  windows  and  saw 
beneath  them,  and  away  between  wide  paral- 
lels of  marching  lights,  the  river  in  which 
quivered  the  myriad  reflections  of  a  night 
city.  Then  another  bright,  crowded,  light- 
soaked  thoroughfare;  and  then  quiet  and 
black  walls  and  slowly  passing  street  lights. 
Madame,  amply-made  and  with  a  winning 
smile,  awaited  them  at  the  top  of  the  stair, 
and  showed  them  their  rooms  with  many  a 
"Voila!"  and  many  a  kindly  attempt  to 
[211] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


speak  a  French  slow  and  simple  enough  for 
their  comprehension. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  evening  that 
they  got  to  know  much  of  their  fellows  in 
the  "pension."  The  afternoon  had  turned 
a  little  chilly  toward  the  close ;  and  when  the 
two  ladies  came  in  from  a  walk  in  the  Lux- 
embourg Gardens,  they  found  a  glow  of  fire 
in  the  drawing-room  grate  and  a  babble  of 
swift  French  playing  abo'ut  it.  They  threw 
off  their  wraps  in  their  room,  and  then  took 
Madame's  invitation  to  come  in  to  the  fire. 
"Ma'am'selle"  was  there,  and  introduced 
them  to  the  rest,  at  which  they  got  a  number 
of  bows  in  the  dim  light  and  a  composite 
sense  of  many  foreign  names.  One  young 
fellow  came  promptly  out  of  the  group, 
however,  and  shook  hands  with  them  as  if 
he  liked  it. 

"Americans?"  he  asked.  "So  am  I. 
Awfully  glad  to  see  you.  Have  a  sort  of 
family  feeling  toward  all  Americans  who 
are  not  too  snobbish  to  live  in  the  Latin 
Quarter." 

[212] 


A  LATIN  QUARTER  "PENSION" 
•4  i 

"Are  there  many  living  here — in  this 
Quarter?"  asked  Jessica. 

"Quite  a  few — and  a  rare  good  sort." 

"We  were  brought  here  by  my  daughter's 
singing  teacher,"  explained  Mrs.  Murney, 
not  quite  sure  enough  yet  that  it  was  the 
Murray  Hill  thing  to  do,  to  take  the  respon- 
sibility of  it. 

"It's  the  right  place— you'll  like  it,"  the 
yo'ung  man  assured  them.  "I've  been  here 
for  three  years.  My  name's  Huntingdon 
— Horace  D.  Huntingdon  of  Cleveland, 
Ohio.  I  guess  you  didn't  catch  it  from 
Ma'am'selle.  She  calls  me  'Hoot-eeng- 
tong'  " ;  and  he  laughed  cheerily. 

"Did  you  catch  ours?"  asked  Jessica. 

"Oh,  yes.  I've  been  here  long  enough  to 
know  what  a  Parisian  means  when  he  says 
'Moor-nay.'  What  part  of  the  States  are 
you  from?" 

The  two  ladies  looked  at  each  other,  and 
then  Mrs.  Murney  said: 

"Well,  our  last  home  was  New  York." 

"But  our  real  home,"  broke  in  Jessica  im- 
pulsively, impatient  of  the  mild  deception 
[213] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


and  prouder,  in  her  new  spirit,  of  the  moun- 
tains than  of  the  city,  "is  the  White  Moun- 
tains." 

"Jupiter!  I  know  them.  A  painter's 
paradise!" 

"Lovely!"  agreed  Jessica. 

"But  we  shall  probably  live  after  this  in 
New  York,"  said  Mrs.  Murney  firmly. 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Huntingdon,  as  if  not- 
ing the  fact;  and  then — "Come  over  to 
the  fire  and  we'll  make  them  talk  English." 

A  young  Frenchman  sprang  up  as  they 
approached,  giving  Jessica  his  chair  and 
making  room  with  a  swift  movement  for 
another  for  Mrs.  Murney.  Flat  on  the  rug 
before  the  fire  lay  a  short,  boyish  chap,  with 
his  hands  under  his  head.  The  glow  of  the 
coals  showed  his  face  to  be  dusky  and  cov- 
ered with  the  short,  silken,  scattered  hairs  of 
the  youth  who  has  never  shaved.  His  eyes 
were  closed,  but  his  lips  bubbled  intermit- 
tently with  a  popular  air  that  ran  like  a 
subdued  accompaniment  to  the  chatter.  At 
his  head  sat  on  the  rug,  with  striking  up- 
rightness, a  girl  whose  age  it  would  have 
[214] 


A  LATIN  QUARTER  "PENSION" 

been  difficult  to  guess.  About  her  neck  lay 
a  loose  scarf,  knotted  in  front ;  and  her  dark, 
greenish-colored  dress  seemed  to  hang  from 
her  shoulders  like  drapery,  though  it  was 
caught  in  at  the  waist.  Her  eyes  sparkled 
perpetually  as  the  talk  played  round  her; 
and  a  picturesque  figure  she  made  in  the 
uncertain  light  with  her  olive-pale  skin  and 
her  smooth,  low-sweeping  hair.  Hardly  less 
picturesque  was  "Ma'am'selle,"  sitting  op- 
posite her,  while  in  the  shadow  at  her  back 
stood  a  man  who  seemed  to  inhabit  his 
clothes  imperfectly,  so  large  and  volumi- 
nous did  they  look.  You  saw  the  man  him- 
self when  you  looked  at  his  feet,  which  in 
shining  little  boots  seemed  a  pin-point  pe- 
destal for  his  swelling  figure;  then  his  trou- 
sers widened  olut  impossibly  and  spread 
away  to  meet  the  capacious  skirts  of  his  coat 
in  the  latitude  of  his  hips ;  finally,  you  began 
to  detect  the  man  again  at  the  shoulders, 
and  then  quite  re-discovered  him  at  his  thin, 
clean-shaven  face,  crowned  with  black, 
loose  hair.  Another  man,  olive-tinted,  with 
goatee  and  horizontal  waxed  moustache, 
[215] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


dressed  in  correct  black  for  the  street,  sat 
at  the  piano  reading  music  and  occasionally 
striking  a  few  notes.  The  young  man  who 
had  given  Jessica  his  seat  wore  a  short  vel- 
vet coat  and  an  enormous  black  tie ;  and  with 
a  shudder  she  saw  that  one  of  his  finger 
nails  was  long  and  white. 

Huntingdon's  demand  for  English 
checked  the  conversation  for  just  a  moment; 
then  the  girl  on  the  rug  said  in  rather  a 
staccato  manner: 

"Perhaps  Mees  Moor-nay  will  give  us  her 
opinion.  Can  one  serve  two  masters?  Can 
one  be  an  artist  and  be  anything  else?" 

"I  should  hope  so,"  said  Jessica,  doubt- 
fully. 

"Mais  non"  cried  her  questioner.  "It  is 
not  to  hope.  It  is  a  thing  to  know.  If  you 
love  art,  can  you  love  a  husband?" 

"I  vote  'yes»' "  said  Huntingdon,  reliev- 
ing the  newcomer  of  a  difficult  question. 

An  impatient  discharge  of  French  fol- 
lowed from  the  gentleman  in  the  wide 
trousers. 

"M.  Bilot  says  that  I  don't  love  art — that 
[216] 


A  LATIN  QUARTER  "PENSION" 
t  fr 

I    only    love    success,"    Mr.    Huntingdon 
translated  to  Jessica. 

"Well,  shouldn't  you  want  to  succeed  in 
your  painting?"  asked  Mrs.  Murney  with  ,a 
view  to  comforting  the  assailed  young  man. 

''Sure!"  he  responded  cheerfully. 

"Then  —  you  —  never  —  will,"  pro- 
nounced the  pale  oracle  from  the  rug,  shak- 
ing a  serious  face  at  him.  "Jamais!  jamais! 
You  must  think  only  of  your  art,  never  of 
success,  never  even  of  what  the  masters  will 
say.  You  must  think  only  of  doing  the  per- 
fect thing  par-faite-ment! — always!  al- 
ways!" 

"Ma'am'selle"  remonstrated  in  French  at 
some  length,  Jessica  gathering  that  she 
quoted  her  own  example  to  the  contrary; 
and,  curiously  enough,  neither  the  girl  on 
the  rug  nor  the  man  behind  her  answered  a 
word,  but  listened  in  flattering  silence. 
Later,  Jessica  learned  that  this  was  the  way 
in  which  the  "pension"  usually  received 
"Ma'am'selle's"  statements,  no  matter  of 
what  character.  "Ma'am'selle"  was  too  near 
the  larder  to  be  disputed. 

[217] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"But  you  don't  think  that  marriage  inter- 
feres with  art?"  Huntingdon  now  asked  the 
young  lady  on  the  rug. 

"For  a  woman,"  she  said,  "it  is  death  to 
art.  A  man  may  save  his  art  if  he  keeps  his 
wife  entirely  secondary." 

"I  have  known,"  said  the  man  behind  her, 
"a  good  artist  to  lose  his  sense  of  proportion 
because  his  wife  had  a  bad  figure.  He 
grew  to  think  it  good,  poor  fool." 

The  young  man  in  a  velvet  coat  shone 
suddenly  into  a  sweet  smile. 

"Then  it  is  good,"  he  said,  "to  marry  one's 
'model,'  n'est  ce  pas?" 

Mrs.  Murney  picked  nervously  at  her 
dress.  She  was  not  quite  certain  that  this 
was  conversation  to  be  listened  to.  Just 
then  Herr  Vogt  arrived,  however,  and  his 
introduction  jarred  the  conversation  into 
another  channel. 


[218] 


CHAPTER  XX 


The  Art  Sect 

To  Jessica,  the  free,  unregulated  talk  of 
this  "pension"  —  what  she  could  understand 
of  it  —  was  a  revelation.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  breast  of  man  —  or  outside  of  it  —  that 
these  astonishing  folk  would  not  discuss 
with  the  utmost  frankness  and  unconcern. 
They  seemed  not  to  know  that  there  were 
certain  things  never  to  be  spoken  of  in  a 
mixed  company;  though  with  a  quick  ap- 
preciation of  her  shy  withdrawal  from  the 
conversation  when  it  approached  forbidden 
ground,  and  of  her  mother's  fixed  lips  and 
averted  eyes,  they  had  a  habit  of  slipping 
into  French  at  such  times,  when  the  two 
Americans  could  presume  that  they  were 
merely  dissecting  their  neighbors'  charac- 
ters. Another  odd  thing  was  that  they  did 
not  think  of  reckoning  three  Americans  in 
the  party,  though  Huntingdon  was  never 
[219] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


tired  of  proclaiming  his  nationality.  Con- 
versationally, he  had  become  acclimated  in 
his  three  years;  and  Cleveland,  Ohio,  would 
have  been  amazed  at  some  of  the  opinions 
that  fell  from  his  lips.  But  quite  the  most 
curious  thing  of  all  was  the  entire  absence 
of  any  of  the  results  to  be  expected  from  so 
much  license  in  discussion.  There  was  no 
vulgarity  of  tone ;  on  the  contrary,  a  delight- 
ful and  artistic  refinement.  Where  nothing 
of  human  interest  was  to  be  avoided,  there 
was  no  sense  of  a  difference  in  moral  quality 
between  this  subject  and  that.  There  was 
not  a  covert  glance  nor  a  snicker  in  the 
whole  conversation.  Jessica  sometimes  felt, 
when  her  flaming  face  was  the  first  signal  at 
the  table  that  something  had  been  said 
which  should  not  have  been,  as  if  she  were 
the  one  of  vulgar  mind  who  read  a  meaning 
into  the  talk  that  was  not  there.  But  then 
she  knew  that,  whatever  else  had  happened, 
she  had  not  done  this;  for  the  meaning 
which  she  had  perceived  was  the  meaning 
on  which  the  conversation  swung. 

There  were  phases  of  the  talk  into  which 
[220] 


THE  ART  SECT 


Herr  Yogt  did  not  go,  sitting  silent;  but 
into  most  of  it  he  plunged  with  the  eager- 
ness of  a  man  who  finds  himself  unex- 
pectedly at  home.  These  people,  one  and 
all,  talked  of  art  as  the  one  reality;  and  art 
meant  the  expression  of  the  soul,  whether  in 
music  or  on  canvas  or  in  clay  or  with  the 
pen.  There  were  differences  in  the  degree 
of  their  devotion.  "Ma'am'selle"  did  much 
copying  at  the  Louvre  and  thought  it  pos- 
sible to  care  for  other  things.  M.  Bilot  had 
his  own  studio  and  painted  what  was  within 
him  without  reference  to  anything  else  in 
the  pressing  world.  It  was  on  record  that 
he  had  refused  to  paint  a  portrait  once  at  a 
fancy  price  because  he  was  working  on  an 
inspiration  of  his  own,  representing  the 
Christ  when  the  first  doubt  stirred  in  his 
mind  respecting  the  sincerity  of  the  Phari- 
sees— though  at  the  time  he  was  living  on 
the  "plat  du  jour"  of  a  neighboring  wine- 
shop and  was  four  months  behind  in  his  stu- 
dio rent.  M'lle  Eglantine  was  a  kindred 
devotee;  and  it  was  rumored  that  she  had, 
more  than  once,  when  hard  pinched,  earned 
[221] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


money  as  a  "model."  But  Herr  Vogt  natu- 
rally found  most  in  common  with  the  mous- 
tached  man  of  the  piano,  M.  Albert  Lafor- 
est,  who  had  his  physical  wants  supplied  by 
a  small  regular  income,  but  who  really  ex- 
isted on  music.  Of  nights,  these  two  would 
take  turn  about  at  the  piano,  playing  and 
singing  mostly  things  of  their  own  composi- 
tion, while  the  others  sat  in  motionless  si- 
lence, even  breathing  as  it  were  under  their 
breath.  Then  Jessica  would  sing,  and  the 
inner  circle  of  the  free  masonry  of  art  was 
open  to  her,  though  she  knew  so  little  of  the 
jargon  and  still  carried  so  many  of  the 
shackles  of  conventionality.  Later  in  the 
year,  M.  Bilot  painted  a  picture  of  the  party 
grouped  about  the  drawing-room  in  atti- 
tudes of  tense  quiet  while  Jessica  sang;  and 
it  was  hung  for  weeks  in  a  window  on  the 
Rue  Lafitte. 

Of  course,  the  purpose  of  Jessica's  pres- 
ence in  Paris  was  steadily  pursued.  She 
took  daily  lessons  now  from  Herr  Vogt; 
and  they  all  three  climbed  to  the  gallery  of 
the  Opera  House  again  and  again  to  hear 
[222] 


THE  ART  SECT 


the  best  singers  of  whom  Paris  boasts — if 
the  polite  Parisian  appreciation  of  the  good 
in  art  or  music  can  be  represented  by  so  as- 
sertive a  verb.  Herr  Vogt  was  at  great 
pains  to  preserve  his  incognito,  for  he  had  a 
lively  fear  of  Hughes  in  his  mind — a  fear 
he  might  have,  had  he  known  that  young 
man's  movements,  freely  dismissed.  Herr 
Werner  had  come,  and  now  lived  near  them; 
and  he,  too,  found  the  atmosphere  of  the 
Murney's  "pension"  fairly  to  his  liking — 
but  "Ma'am'selle"  seemed  at  times  to  resent 
his  worship  of  the  new  star.  He  appeared 
slow  of  thought  and  speech  in  that  hair- 
trigger  company;  but  when  they  came  to 
know  him,  they  waited  patiently  for  the  un- 
folding of  his  thought,  for  they  found  it 
well  worth  while.  There  seemed,  however, 
to  be  one  subtle  difference  between  his  and 
their  point  of  view.  Together,  for  instance, 
they  could  revel  in  picturing  the  gathering 
of  glittering  knights  and  gaily  dressed 
ladies  for  a  mediseval  tournament — an  exer- 
cise he  was  fond  of  introducing  into  their 
talk — but  the  others  dwelt  only  on  the 
[223] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


pageant,  the  streaming  colors,  the  pic- 
turesque dress,  the  old  time  manners  and 
customs.  To  him  these  were  but  the  fitting 
trappings  of  the  magnificent  manliness,  the 
ever-tested  courage  of  the  j  ousters,  and  the 
high  spirit  of  the  women  who  kept  their 
favors  for  the  brave  and  not  for  the  merely 
entertaining — for  the  knight  rather  than 
for  the  minstrel,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
"fool." 

Jessica  in  this  stood  with  Herr  Werner. 
"It  seems  to  me,"  she  said  to  him  one  day, 
"that  these  people  would  paint  a  knight's 
armour,  while  you  would  understand  his  very 
spirit" — a  saying  she  was  to  recall  before 
many  moons. 

Early  in  their  stay,  Herr  Vogt  had  to 
face  a  serious  question.  Would  he  let  his 
other  pupils  go  for  a  time,  and  stay  to  direct 
the  marvellous  Miss  Murney's  career  in 
Paris;  or  would  he  leave  her  to  a  French 
teacher  and  go  back  to  Dresden?  He  liked 
neither  alternative  and  was  about  deciding 
to  try  and  carry  the  Murneys  back  to  Dres- 
den with  him,  defying  "Herr  Hughes"  to 
[224] 


THE  ART  SECT 


destroy  the  effect  of  all  these  weeks  of  "liv- 
ing her  music,"  when,  through  the  instru- 
mentality of  M.  Laforest,  Jessica  received  a 
flattering  invitation  to  sing  at  a  great  func- 
tion a  little  in  the  future.  She  accepted  at 
once,  for  this  was  what  they  had  come  for; 
and  Herr  Vogt  doubted  his  ability  to  per- 
suade her  to  give  up  the  chance.  So  he 
waited;  and  Mrs.  Murney  carried  Jessica 
off  to  "shop"  for  a  suitable  gown  for  the 
occasion,  and  dragged  her  hither  and  thither 
in  jostling  stores  and  charging  streets  until 
she  was  well-nigh  worn  down  to  the  spirit- 
less level  of  those  first  dreary  days  at  Lu- 
cerne. This  might,  indeed,  easily  have  hap- 
pened if  it  had  not  been  for  the  deep 
draught  of  the  truly  artistic  spirit  which  was 
pressed  to  her  lips  nightly  at  the  "pension." 
But,  as  it  was,  she  sang  still  with  the  soul  of 
her;  and  Herr  Vogt  awaited  his  triumph, 
for  now  that  Jessica  was  to  sing  in  public, 
he  could  abandon  his  irksome  hiding.  As 
for  Herr  Werner,  he  read  the  loud  adver- 
tisements, and  thought  of  the  indefatigable 
Hughes — but  there  was  much  hope  in  him, 
[225] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


for  Hughes  had  appeared  to  give  up  the 
contest  even  in  Lucerne.  He  did  not  men- 
tion this  to  Herr  Vogt,  however — it  was  as 
well  not  to  be  too  sure. 

Finally  the  great  night  came,  and  the 
whole  "pension"  marched  over  to  the  cheap- 
est seats  in  the  house  to  hear  their  familiar 
divinity.  But,  although  they  gave  her  a 
lonety  spatter  of  applause  when  she  came 
out,  the  rest  of  the  audience  received  her  in 
silence.  She  was  a  newcomer  and  an 
American,  and  America  was  a  land  of  cheap 
finish  and  easy  supremacy.  At  her  first 
notes  there  was  a  slight  stir,  and  then  a 
deeper  silence.  The  compliment  of  close 
attention  was  being  paid  in  italics;  and 
when  she  finished,  a  storm  of  applause  broke 
over  the  house  which  did  not  abate  until  she 
had  come  back  twice  to  bow  and  then  a  third 
tune  to  sing.  The  judgment  of  the  au- 
dience approved  her  like  the  snap  of  a 
spring.  At  her  second  and  only  other  ap- 
pearance, she  was  received  as  an  old  favor- 
ite; and  at  the  close  the  musical  coterie  in 
the  audience  mobbed  the  stage  waiting-room 
[226] 


THE  ART  SECT 


to  see  and  praise  her.  Here  Herr  Vogt 
was  discovered  and  re-discovered,  and 
flooded  with  congratulations  on  having 
found  this  marvel,  and  brought  her,  with 
rare  sapiency  in  a  German,  to  Paris;  and 
they  were  both  invited  here,  there  and  every- 
where, and  one  serious  engagement  for  a 
month  ahead  "booked"  before  they  escaped 
to  their  cab.  The  next  day  some  of  the 
papers,  which  had  heard  of  the  event 
promptly,  had  much  about  "the  new  Ameri- 
can singer,"  and  other  papers  kept  publish- 
ing it  as  fresh  news  for  the  remainder  of  the 
week.  Jessica  was  "discovered"  nearly 
every  day  by  a  new  journal,  which  appar- 
ently imagined  that  no  person  had  heard 
of  her  until  one  of  their  musical  contributors 
found  time  to  send  in  an  elaborate  and  signed 
"appreciation." 

It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Murney  began 
talking  of  London.  London  was  the  place 
from  which  to  dazzle  New  York.  These 
French  people  were  all  very  kind  and  ap- 
preciative, but  look  at  their  papers!  They'd 
never  get  Jessica's  picture  in.  From  Lon- 
[227] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


don  every  success  would  be  cabled  to  the 
illustrated  Sunday  journals.  Herr  Wer- 
ner took  new  alarm  at  this  talk  of  London. 
London  spelled  Hughes. 

But  Hughes  was  on  a  ship  bound  for  the 
west  coast  of  Africa,  where  he  had  a  brother 
captaining  a  handful  of  British  "Tommies" 
who  were  keeping  the  flag  floating  and  the 
natives  up  to  the  mark  at  one  of  the  out- 
posts of  Empire.  He  could  see  nothing  in 
Europe  but  a  lost  Jessica,  and  he  longed  to 
mix  his  life  with  the  primal  currents  of 
being.  He  should  have  been  a  soldier, 
b'Jove,  he  told  himself,  and  had  his  duty 
to  do. 

Herr  Vogt  had  a  final  struggle  with  him- 
self as  to  the  future,  and  decided  to  leave 
Dresden  definitely  for  the  winter  and  ally 
himself  to  Jessica's  soaring  fortunes. 


[228] 


CHAPTER  XXI 


Art  and  Love 

THE  buoyancy  of  the  said  fortunes  was 
such  as  to  give  Mrs.  Murney  permanent 
employment  as  a  day-dreamer,  and  to  turn 
M.  Bilot  into  a  male  Cassandra  who  was 
always  warning  Jessica  that  she  would  lose 
her  art  in  its  success. 

"That  is  the  master  peril  to  all  artists," 
he  would  say.  "A  man  labors  and  waits, 
squeezes  his  very  heart's  blood  out  on  his 
pallet,  beckons  phantom  after  phantom, 
hoping  that  each  one  is  the  shadow  of  inspi- 
ration, and  at  last  does  something  near 
enough  to  the  lowest  good  to  seem  even  to 
his  fellow  artists,  who  know  not  all  he  has 
striven  for,  to  be  among  the  best.  Then  the 
public  come  and  they  say  it  is  the  best;  and, 
what  is  more,  they  tell  each  other  why  it  is 
the  best  and  what  are  its  points  of  excel- 
lence, —  choosing,  probably,  some  slip  of  the 
[229] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


brush  or  some  mannerism  from  which  he  has 
vainly  struggled  to  escape.  Thus  success 
comes  to  him,  and  calls  him  away  from  his 
hard  days  and  heart-sick  nights,  and  feeds 
him  on  adulation,  and  tells  him  that  his 
faults  are  virtues  until  he  half  believes  it, 
and  demands  the  repetition  of  the  weak- 
nesses which  the  public,  with  an  uninten- 
tional irony,  call  his  'style.'  And" — here 
M.  Bilot  would  sigh  and  shrug  his  shoul- 
ders— "the  poor  devil  likes  success  better 
than  half -starved  failure,  and  he  tarries  in 
the  cushioned  vestibule  which  the  public  call 
the  'holy  of  holies,'  and  never  toils  up  the 
lonely  stairway  to  the  Temple.  And  so  he 
dies  and  in  ten  years  is  forgotten,  while  the 
man  who  did  not  'succeed'  and  whose  feet 
were  not  stayed  by  the  press  of  the  people, 
pushes  on  to  the  Temple  itself;  and  when  he 
has  been  ten  years  dead,  the  world  discovers 
that  his  is  the  perfect  work  and  not  that  of 
the  idol  of  the  vestibule.  It  is  best  for  the 
artist,  Miss  Murney,  not  to  succeed  until  he 
is  thoroughly  dead." 

[230] 


ART  AND  LOVE 


"But  I  am  a  singer  and  must  please  the 
present,"  Jessica  would  say. 

"Yes;  but  the  principle  is  the  same.  The 
moment  you  become  satisfied,  that  moment 
you  stop  trying  to  express  yourself  better. 
And  popular  success  tends  to  that  fatty 
sense  of  satisfaction  which  is  another  name 
for  fatty  degeneration  of  the  soul." 

All  this  sort  of  talk  was  so  much  Greek 
to  Mrs.  Murney,  and  she  would  have  dis- 
missed it  as  a  part  of  the  common  and  in- 
comprehensible folly  of  that  "pension"  if 
Jessica  had  not  taken  such  serious  note  of 
it. 

"What  else  can  you  do,  child,  but  sing 
your  best?"  she  asked  her  pondering  daugh- 
ter. 

"Nothing,  dearest.  But  that's  just  it. 
I  already  feel  a  temptation  to  do  what  the 
people  seem  to  like  instead  of  what  it  is  my 
inner  impulse  to  do." 

And  Herr  Werner  supported  this  view. 

The  great  thing  was  for  her  to  choose  the 

music  that  her  so'ul  at  its  best  preferred,  and 

then    sing    it    with    as    finished    skill    as 

[231] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


she  could.  This  would  eventually  please 
the  people — if  not  here,  then  in  Germany, 
where  they  knew  good  music;  and,  what  was 
far  worthier,  it  would  clarify  their  soul-sight 
and  open  to  them  the  kingdom  of  the  great 
and  the  good. 

It  was  while  talking  together  in  this  way 
one  afternoon  when  they  sat  alone  by  the 
grate  fire  in  the  "pension"  drawing-room, 
and  Jessica  had  confessed  to  a  fear  that  it 
might  be  even  harder  to  do  this  in  New 
York  than  in  Paris,  that  Herr  Werner  had 
leaned  towards  her  and  said: 

"Would  you  not  take  help  in  so  great  a 
mission  in  life?" 

Jessica  knew  in  a  flash  that  a  crisis  had 
come  in  her  life;  that  she  was  at  a  choosing 
between  the  ways — and  before  she  had  de- 
cided which  to  choose.  She  looked  steadily 
into  the  fire,  but  no  word  opened  her  lips. 

"You  will  be  more  alone  in  New  York 

than  here,"  he  went  on,  "and  I  could  live  my 

life  out  encouraging  you  when  you  needed 

it — reminding  you  of  the  higher  path  when 

[232] 


ART  AND  LOVE 


the  people  seemed  hurrying  you  along  the 
lower." 

There  was  silence  again  for  a  little,  and  it 
was  Herr  Werner  again  who  broke  it.  This 
time  his  voice  was  lower  and  less  under  con- 
trol than  usual. 

"Don't  think,  Miss  Murney,  that  this  is  a 
cold  wooing — that  I  don't  love  you  with  my 
whole  soul  because  I  have  not  blurted  it  out 
to  begin  with.  But  simply  that  I  loved  you 
seemed  so  poor  a  reason  to  beg  you — y&u — 
to  marry  me,  that  I  felt  that  I  must  begin 
with  another.  Yet  I  love  you  as — " 

"That's  it,"  she  broke  in  sharply,  with  a 
harshness  which  would  have  been  cruel  had 
it  not  been  wrung  from  her  by  a  perplexity 
that  distracted  her  like  a  pain.  "That's 
what  stops  me,"  she  went  on.  "I — cannot 
tell  myself  that  I  love  you.  I" — and  she 
now  turned  toward  him,  her  face  as  pinched 
by  anxiety  as  his  by  suspense, — "find  my 
greatest  support  in  your  sympathy  and  un- 
derstanding. You  know  me  as  no  one  else 
does.  I  need  not  say  things  to  you — you 
see  them." 

[233] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"Surely  that  shows  us  congenial?"  he 
pleaded. 

"Congenial?  Yes.  The  best  of  friends, 
Herr  Werner.  You  cannot  think  that  I  do 
not  value  your  friendship.  But — can — can 
I  marry  you?" 

He  did  not  attempt  to  answer  this,  and 
they  both  sat  in  silence.  Then  Jessica  be- 
gan speaking  again — clearly  to  herself.  So 
at  home  was  she  with  Herr  Werner  that  she 
could  do  this  in  his  presence,  even  when  the 
subject  was  his  proposal. 

"I  am  never  lonely  when  you  are  here," 
was  what  she  said.  "I  feel  the  want  of  no 
one  else." 

A  new  hope  shot  into  his  face.  "Wait!" 
he  suggested.  "Wait  a  little;  and,  perhaps, 
you  may  love  me." 

"No!  No!"  she  flung  back  almost  violent- 
ly. "I  could  not,"  she  cried  with  passionate 
positiveness. 

He  paled  to  the  lips.  "I  can  go  away," 
he  said  quietly. 

"And  leave  me  to  face  all  this  alone!" 
she  cried  in  dismay. 

[234] 


ART  AND  LOVE 


His  face  was  that  of  a  man  tossed  back 
and  forth  between  hope  and  despair  by  a 
capricious  hand.  "I  will  stay  if  you  want 
me,"  he  said  as  quietly  as  before. 

"I  want  you.  I  need  you,"  she  assured 
him  in  an  earnest  voice.  "But" — she  looked 
at  him  as  if  she  half  expected  a  blow — "I 
could  not  let  you  touch  my  hand  as — as  a 
lover." 

He  stood  up  and  took  that  cruel  saying 
with  only  a  quiver.  Then  his  face  flamed, 
and  his  mouth  worked  as  if  struggling  for 
utterance — or  for  silence? — and,  turning, 
he  strode  out  of  the  room.  Jessica  waited 
for  a  few  moments  in  the  poignant  loneli- 
ness that  his  going  seemed  to  create;  and 
then  she  ran,  mentally  benumbed,  upstairs 
like  a  troubled  school  girl  and  burst  into  her 
mother's  room,  and,  throwing  herself  beside 
the  bed  on  which  her  mother  was  resting, 
cried  heartily  in  a  nervous  and  jerky  man- 
ner. 

For  three  days  they  saw  nothing  of  Herr 
Werner  at  the  "pension";  and  Jessica,  un- 
supported by  his  way  of  approaching  every 
[235] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


topic  in  a  deeply  philosophic  manner,  had 
begun  to  taste  an  artificiality,  or,  at  all 
events,  an  unsatisfying  superficiality,  in  this 
worship  of  art.  Herr  Werner  had  some- 
how given  it  all  a  profound  guise  of  wisdom 
which  she  now  missed.  Now  it  was  always 
the  armour  of  the  knight,  never  his  spirit. 

But  on  the  fourth  day  Herr  Werner  came 
in.  There  were  several  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  they  greeted  him  boisterously, 
demanding  that  he  give  an  account  of  his 
absent  days.  He  smiled  in  defensive  silence, 
however;  but,  in  greeting  Jessica,  pressed 
her  hand  and  said  for  her  ears  only : 

"May  I  take  up  again  the  role  of  friend?" 
"Yes!  Yes!"  she  said  eagerly;  and  soon 
she  felt  in  the  discussion  that  ever  went  on  in 
this  high-tensioned  "pension,"  the  reassur- 
ing pressure  of  his  strong  mind,  which  al- 
ways struck  the  roots  of  its  opinions  far  be- 
low the  surface  and  down  into  the  founda- 
tions of  things.  They  had  no  further  word 
together  until  he  was  going  away,  and  then 
he  said: 

[236] 


ART  AND  LOVE 


"Are  you  sorry  that  I  turned  back — that 
I  did  not  go  to  Poland?" 

"Did  you  start?"  she  asked  with  a  little 
sinking  at  the  heart. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "I  got  to  Cologne." 

"Oh!" 

"But  there  I  got  off.  I  felt  myself  go- 
ing away  and  away  from  the  joy  of  life.  I 
walked  across  the  platz  opposite  the  station 
and  into  the  Cathedral,  and  I  thought  of 
you  'facing  all  this  alone,'  as  you  had  said; 
and,  though  I  hoped  for  nothing  better,  I 
turned  back  to  face  it  with  you." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  friend,"  she  said, 
every  word  a  tender  emphasis.  "I  missed 
you — much — terribly.  It  may  be — "  and 
she  stopped. 

"What?"  he  asked. 

"I  dare  not  say  it,  Herr  Werner;  for  it 
may  not  be." 

He  lifted  his  face.  "But  it  may,"  he  pro- 
claimed aloud;  and  the  others  turned  from 
the  fire  to  see  what  was  meant.  Being  of 
the  race  to  which  intuition  is  a  sixth  sense 
and  the  language  of  love-making  a  mother 

[237] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


tongue,  they  probably  knew;  but  politeness 
and  tact  being  commonplaces  with  them, 
they  did  not  let  Jessica  suspect  it. 

That  night,  however,  as  Jessica  was  going 
to  her  room,  Mile  Eglantine  put  her  arm 
around  her,  and,  after  a  few  preparatory 
flutterings  toward  the  subject,  said: 

"We  poor  women  must  choose  between 
our  art  and  our  love.  Whatever  man  can 
do,  we  cannot  keep  both — we  have  no  prac- 
tice in  keeping  a  wife  and  a  mistress" — and 
she  laughed.  "Don't  tell  M.  Bilot,"  she 
went  on  playfully;  "but  I  am  not  sure  that 
it  is  always,  always  best  to  choose  the  art." 
And  a  great  seriousness  was  in  her  eyes 
when  she  finished.  Jessica  said  nothing,  for 
love  was  not  in  the  question — not  yet. 


[238] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

1- 
Fontainebleau 

THERE  are  many  cities  of  Paris.  The 
man  who  stays  at  a  boulevard  hotel,  begin- 
ning his  day  at  dejeuner  and  ending  it  at  a 
cabaret,  sees  one;  and  the  married  pair  who 
live  between  the  Place  de  FEtoile  and  the 
Trocadero  and  consider  their  average  day 
as  fairly  well  ended  with  the  ringing  cffermJ '' 
of  the  galleries,  see  quite  another.  There 
are  others  and  others  in  plenty;  but  there  is 
none  more  wholly  pleasing  to  the  eye  of 
youth  than  that  made  out  through  the  tinted 
haze  of  the  Quartier  Latin.  From  here, 
the  Louvre  is  not  a  task  or  a  maze  or  even 
a  picture  book;  it  is  a  temple  where  one  may 
go  when  in  the  mood  to  worship  for  a  time 
at  the  shrine  of  an  artistic  ancestor.  To 
rush  from  picture  to  picture — that  is  the 
tourists'  tread-mill;  to  see  through  and 
[239] 


THE   PENSIONNAIRES 


through  one  or  two,  and  compare,  and  mar- 
vel— that  is  the  disciple's  privilege. 

What  Paris  means  to  the  true  citizens  of 
the  Latin  Quarter,  only  they  may  know.  As 
well  might  the  stock-broker  try  to  imagine 
what  the  poet  sees  when  he  looks  on  a  leaf- 
less wood  in  the  white  winter.  But  to  the 
sojourner  among  them,  the  shadow  of  the 
vision  is  ever  a  magic  haze.  When  he  has 
heard  them  clash  opinions  for  a  long  night 
over  the  work  of  some  painter  he  has  quite 
missed  at  the  Louvre — or,  more  likely,  the 
Luxembourg — he  goes  to  seek  it  the  next 
day  with  a  new  light  in  his  eye.  He  finds 
himself,  after  a  time,  in  some  crude  fashion, 
distinguishing  for  himself  the  good  from 
the  bad,  and  getting  a  new  and  keen  pleas- 
lire  in  the  study  of  things  that  formerly  he 
did  not  know  were  there. 

Jessica,  who  had  an  abundance  of  time 
and  a  passionate  love  of  the  beautiful,  saw 
little  by  little,  as  the  days  went  by,  this  glori- 
fied Paris.  On  dull  days  when  the  light  did 
not  suit  him,  M.  Bilot  would  take  her  and 
her  mother  up  to  the  Louvre  and  talk  to 
[240] 


FONTAINEBLEAU 


them  of  the  pictures,  and  introduce  them  to 
dirty-bearded  old  men,  and  white-haired, 
white-faced  old  women,  and  luminous-eyed, 
oddly-dressed  young  women,  who  were 
copying  them;  and  the  proportion  of  his 
talk  that  Jessica  understood  grew  greater 
as  the  autumn  wore  on.  Sometimes  M'lle 
Eglantine  would  come,  too,  and  quite  often 
Mr.  Huntingdon;  and  then  Jessica  under- 
stood less  than  ever.  Mr.  Huntingdon  was 
fonder  of  taking  her  to  the  Luxembourg, 
where  the  modern  pictures  hung,  and  she 
liked  this  the  better,  too ;  but  she  could  come 
to  no  proper  understanding  of  his  ecstasy 
over  the  "impressionist  school."  At  nights 
they  would  all  turn  out  together  and  saunter 
down  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel,  where  the 
men  spoke  gaily  to  painted  butterflies  she 
could  scarce  look  at,  and  introduced  her  to 
sallow,  wide-hatted,  nervous-eyed  old  young 
men  who  made  her  blush  with  their  open  gal- 
lantries. M'lle  Eglantine  took  similar  com- 
pliments as  a  matter  of  course;  and  Jessica 
numbered  no  more  essentially  modest  girl 
among  her  acquaintances.  In  some  way 
[241] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


these  people  looked  at  things  after  a  far  dif- 
ferent fashion  than  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to.  M'lle  Eglantine  went  to  a  studio 
sometimes  where  men  and  women  painted 
together  from  the  nude;  but  Jessica  would 
have  died  rather  than  go  with  her.  By  ac- 
cident, she  stumbled  into  such  a  studio  one 
morning;  and  it  was  nausea  and  not  shame 
that  she  felt  when  she  saw  the  poor  old 
"model"  shivering  on  his  throne. 

Her  success  as  a  singer  satisfied  even 
Heir  Vogt;  and  the  talk  of  taking  her  to 
London  soon,  where  the  New  York  public 
would  be  better  aware  of  her,  grew  more 
serious.  And  now  even  Herr  Werner  had 
ceased  to  fear  the  reappearance  of  Hughes. 
He  must  have  withdrawn  from  the  contest 
— which  was  quite  a  surprise  to  the  thought- 
ful German.  His  theory  of  the  English 
character  included  doggedness. 

The  Christmas  holidays  approached,  and 
the  Murneys  felt  intermittent  longings  for 
home.  Herr  Vogt  was  going  home  for  the 
festival,  and  had  already  conducted  by  cor- 
respondence the  negotiations  for  the  pur- 
[242] 


FONTAINEBLEAU 


chase  of  a  proper  Christmas  tree.  The  Mur- 
neys  talked  quite  seriously  of  going  home, 
too,  and  coming  back  after  the  New  Year; 
for  Jessica's  winnings  were  already  consid- 
erable. But  they  practised  self-denial  and 
shopped  at  the  little  booths  which  had 
sprung  up  along  the  sides  of  the  boulevards, 
and  went  to  midnight  mass  at  St.  Sulpice  on 
Christmas  Eve — with  its  maze  of  lights  and 
the  devout  women  and  the  ringing  of  many 
silver  bells — and  then  pretended  all  the  fol- 
lowing day  that  Christmas  was  over  again 
and  the  next  a  year  ahead. 

The  story  of  the  first  of  the  New  Year 
was  a  repetition  of  the  past,  only  with  clear, 
frosty  days  instead  of  cloud  and  occasional 
skating  in  the  Bois.  An  architectural  stu- 
dent came  to  the  "pension"  and  they  all  took 
a  new  interest  in  the  churches  and  public 
buildings  of  the  city.  Then  a  young 
Egyptologist  turned  up,  and  Jessica  spent 
days  in  the  Egyptian  rooms  at  the  Louvre. 
M.  Bilot  marvelled  at  this,  for  he  had  not 
known  before  that  there  were  any  Egyptian 
remains  there. 

[243] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"There  is  art  there,"  said  the  Egyptol- 
ogist, "which  has  already  lasted  ten  times 
as  long  as  the  canvases  of  your  Raphael." 

M.  Bilot  twirled  his  ring.  "This  ruby 
has  lasted  longer,"  he  said,  "and  so  has  the 
dirt  under  this  city." 

"But  this  is  the  work  of  man,"  protested 
the  Egyptologist. 

"Art  is  like  a  maiden,"  said  M.  Bilot. 
"It  does  not  depend  upon  age  solely  for  at- 
tractiveness." 

Herr  Werner  continued  his  role  of  philos- 
opher and  friend  to  Jessica,  though  in  that 
of  guide  he  had  assistance.  From  the 
others,  she  learned  what  and  how  to  see; 
from  him,  what  to  think  of  the  things  she 
saw.  Gradually  a  certain  "use  to  his  pres- 
ence wore  itself  a  nest  in  her  being — the  be- 
ginnings had  been  there  when  he  started  for 
Poland  and  stopped  at  Cologne — and  now 
she  felt  that  it  could  not  be  empty.  Either 
he  must  fill  it — or  pain.  Her  liking  for 
him  took  a  noticeably  more  affectionate 
cast;  and  she  would  look  at  his  straight  fig- 
ure and  bright,  thinking  face  with  a  wish  to 
[244] 


FONTAINEBLEAU 


reward  his  patience — with  a  desire  to  mother 
him  in  his  loneliness. 

When  the  spring  came,  they  all  felt  the 
natural  human  desire  to  go  out  to  the  wide, 
unpaved  country,  and  greet  it.  And  so 
well  had  they  all  thriven  in  the  winter  that 
they  decided  they  could  allow  themselves  the 
pleasure.  So  they  fell  one  night  to  dis- 
cussing "where."  Herr  Vogt  said  "any- 
where but  Versailles."  He  had  been  at  Ver- 
sailles in  '71  with  his  regiment,  and  did  not 
want  to  see  it  again. 

"Nor  I  to  go  with  you,  you  beast,"  said 
M'lle  Eglantine  tinder  her  breath. 

"Where  do  you  say?"  the  "Ma'am'selle"  of 
the  "pension"  asked  Mr.  Huntingdon. 

"I? — Oh,  I  say  Fontainebleau,"  he  re- 
plied. "Fontainebleau  from  Friday  to 
Tuesday." 

"I  vote  with  you,"  added  M'lle  Eglan- 
tine. "Fontainebleau  and  By." 

"Fontainebleau  with  the  breeze  in  the 
trees  will  suit  me;"  and  M.  Laforest  gave 
in  his  concurrence. 

Soon  M.  Bilot  came  in  and  was  asked 
[245] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


where  in  all  the  world  he  would  like  to  go 
for  a  few  days  to  welcome  the  spring. 

"If  I  had  my  choice,"  he  said  gravely, 
but  with  a  glad  look  in  his  eyes,  "it  would 
be  Fontainebleau — Fontainebleau  and  Bar- 
bison." 

He  got  a  patter  of  hand-clapping  for 
this.  There  is  nothing  we  applaud  so  much 
as  agreement  with  ourselves. 

The  architectural  student  had,  when  he 
came,  a  momentary  leaning  toward  Chan- 
tilly  with  its  great  chateau;  but  they  told 
him  he  must  choose  again,  when  he  named 
the  Palais  at  Fontainebleau.  It  was  quite 
a  round  of  applause  that  assured  him  he 
had  spoken  the  mind  of  the  company. 

There  remained  only  Herr  Werner  then 
to  hear  from — for  the  Murneys  were 
strangers  and  were  "to  be  taken" — and 
when  he  came  that  evening,  they  discussed 
faring  forth  to  hail  the  spring  as  quite  a 
new  idea  and  asked  him  for  a  suggestion  as 
to  whither  they  had  best  go. 

He  thought  of  it  with  eager  seriousness, 
[246] 


FONTAINEBLEAU 


mentioning  reasons  why  they  should  not  go 
to  several  places,  and  then  asked : 

"Why  not  run  down  to  the  Forest  of  Fon- 
tainebleau?     The  spring- 
But  the  sho'ut  that  endorsed  his  proposal 
drowned  his  reasons  in  support  of  it. 

So  the  next  Friday,  they  all  walked  over 
to  the  Gare  de  I^yon,  and  filled  a  compart- 
ment in  a  train  that  shot  them  across  the 
country  to  the  station  at  Avon,  where  they 
boarded  a  tram  to  the  Palace  gates. 

All  the  way  down  they  had  debated 
where  they  should  stay  for  their  "English 
week  end";  and  had  decided  nothing  when 
they  got  off  the  train  except  that  they  would 
not  go  on,  as  M'lle  Eglantine  urged,  to  a 
country  hotel,  with  a  court-yard,  near  By. 
"Monsieur,"  she  told  them,  "was  the  chef, 
and  he  made  a  fish  sauce  which  rendered  you 
indifferent  to  the  kind  of  fish,  and  yet 
brought  out  the  flavor  of  the  fish  so  nicely 
that  you  almost — but  not  quite — forgot  the 

sauce " 

"What  a  gourmand  you  are  I"  ex- 
claimed Huntingdon. 

[247] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


"Me? — Oh!" — and  she  wrinkled  her  face 
into  a  protest  that  was  meant  to  look  insin- 
cere— perfectly  acted,  you  would  say;  and 
you  would  be  wrong,  for  this  is  second  na- 
ture to  the  Latin.  "When  I  have  only 
bread  and  wine,"  she  went  on,  "I  choose  the 
bread  of  a  certain  crustiness — not  too  much, 
you  know,  yet  hard  and  thin;  and  I  want 
Southern  wine.  But  this  hotel!  Madame 
is  in  the  office;  and,  M.  Bilot,  she  has  a 
Murillo  face.  They  give  you  cream  in  little 
earthen  jars  with  fresh  leaves  tied  over 
them — and  it  is  not  far  from  Rosa  Bon- 
heur's  studio." 

"Ah,  that  is  it!"  cried  M.  Bilot.  "It  is 
not  the  fish  sauce  nor  the  cream,  but  Rosa 
and  her  canvas  menagerie  that  draw  M'lle 
to  that  hotel." 

So  they  all  got  off  at  Avon  and  swarmed 
into  the  tram,  three  small  bags  and  a  couple 
of  loose,  shopping  "hold-alls"  carrying  their 
baggage.  The  architectural  student  was 
for  a  hotel  near  the  Palais,  and  M.  Bilot  for 
Barbison;  but  they  all  went  up  first  to  a 
"pension"  "Ma'am'selle"  knew  of  near  the 
[248] 


FONTAINEBLEAU 


Forest.  Here,  by  great  luck,  there  was  ac- 
commodation for  five,  which  was  taken,  af- 
ter some  debate,  by  the  Murneys,  "Ma'am- 
selle,"  M'lle  Eglantine  and  Herr  Vogt. 
M.  Bilot,  Herr  Werner  and  M.  Laforest 
walked  on  through  the  Forest  to  Barbison, 
and  the  architectural  student  went  back  to 
his  hotel  near  the  Palais. 


[249] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

t 
"The  Knight" 

THE  next  morning,  Herr  Werner  and  M. 
Bilot  walked  over  together  through  the  For- 
est to  the  Fontainebleau  "pension"  to  get 
the  party  to  go  out  and  picnic  at  the  edge  of 
the  Gorges  de  Franchard.  They  were  to 
pick  up  M.  Laforest  at  an  appointed  spot 
on  the  way  back.  M.  Bilot  led  the  conver- 
sation on  the  way  over  to  the  financial  stand- 
ing of  M'lle  Murney  and  tried  to  learn  from 
Herr  Werner  what  he  knew  on  the  subject. 
Of  course,  she  was  rich — all  Americans  were 
rich — but  how  rich?  Herr  Werner  did  not 
know.  No,  of  course  not,  said  M.  Bilot, 
with  a  teasing  drollery.  Herr  Werner  was 
a  sly  dog  in  his  opinion.  Herr  Werner 
then  said  that  he  thought  the  Murneys  were 
poor.  Oh,  so  bad  as  that,  said  M.  Bilot 
with  great  dejection.  How  wonderful  it 
was  that  they  tarried  so  long  in  Europe! 
[250] 


THE  KNIGHT" 


Herr  Werner  now  waxed  argumentative 
and  explanatory.  Miss  Murney  was  learn- 
ing singing  so  that  she  might  go  back  to 
America  and  support  herself  and  her 
mother.  "A  voice  of  gold  is  as  good  as  a 
dot,"  observed  M.  Bilot,  succinctly;  and 
called  Herr  Werner's  attention  to  the 
shades  the  sun  brought  out  in  the  tender 
green  of  the  new  spring  foliage. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day,  Herr  Werner 
thought  profoundly  over  this  conversation, 
denying  himself  several  good  discussions  in 
order  to  do  so  with  the  more  speed  and  thor- 
oughness and  came  to  the  conclusion  by  six 
different  lines  of  reasoning  that  M.  Bilot 
was  thinking  of  proposing  marriage  to  Jes- 
sica. Nor  was  this  conclusion  dissipated  by 
the  fact  that,  while  he  was  thinking,  M. 
Bilot  encouraged  Jessica  by  the  subtle  flat- 
tery of  an  awakening  interest  to  talk  of  her 
American  life  and  her  American  friends, 
and  finally  took  her  off  alone  to  show  her 
the  afternoon  lights  on  a  part  of  the  gorge 
long  loved  of  artists.  When  they  came  back 
he  was  practising  her  in  the  pronunciation 

[251] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


of  "Georges,"  which  was  his  Christian 
name.  Herr  Werner  had  never  thought  to 
tell  her  his. 

"M.  Bilot  is  getting  prosperous  and  bour- 
geois," M'lle  Eglantine  complained  to  M. 
Laforest  in  French.  "He  will  be  burying 
himself  in  an  establishment  one  of  these 
days." 

"Ump!  He  is  already  picking  the  upper 
housekeeper,"  agreed  M.  Laforest. 

"They  all  see  it,"  thought  Herr  Werner; 
and  his  logical  mind  at  once  faced  the  ques- 
tion of  what  he  should  do.  M.  Bilot  was 
more  dangerous  than  "Herr  Hughes"  for 
he  could  pierce  into  Jessica's  thought  and 
learn  the  sort  of  man  she  wanted  and  then 
act  the  part  to  the  very  life,  with  a  number 
of  additional  flourishes  which  would  only 
occur  to  the  fancy  of  a  French  artist.  Con- 
sequently he  (Herr  Werner)  could  afford 
to  wait  no  longer.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
loiter  with  Hughes  beaten  out  of  the  field 
and  no  other  rival  in  sight.  But  M.  Bilot 
would  clearly  not  be  a  tardy  wooer. 

So  that  night  he  made  a  move  that,  for 
[252] 


THE  KNIGHTJ 


once,  outran  M.  Bilot.  He  said  that  he 
would  walk  back  to  Fontainebleau  with  the 
Murneys,  leaving  the  two  Frenchmen  to  go 
to  Barbison  alone.  There  he  would  hunt  up 
and  stay  with  the  architectural  student,  and 
drag  him  from  the  Palais  into  the  Forest 
the  next  day.  Walking  back  through  the 
Forest,  shot  through  and  through  with  the 
level  lights  of  approaching  evening,  Herr 
Werner  lingered  behind  the  others  with 
Jessica  and  talked  to  her  first  of  how  the 
majestic  old  forest,  putting  on  again  for 
the  thousandth  time  its  bright,  new  gown  of 
spring,  as  eager  for  its  fresh  finery  as  ever, 
seemed  to  him.  This  was  the  point  of  view 
that  Jessica  most  admired  in  him — a  philo- 
sophic, sympathetic,  understanding  worship 
of  the  beautiful.  It  was  seeing  beauty  not 
merely  with  the  eyes,  but  with  the  intelli- 
gence; and  it  satisfied  her  as  something 
deeper  than  sensuality  and  yet  as  sensuous 
as  an  opium  vision. 

Then  abruptly — 

"Miss  Murney,  my  domino  and  mask — 
[253] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


the  domino  and  mask  of  friendship — is  worn 
through." 

She  looked  quickly  at  him.  "I  am  so 
sorry,"  she  said,  for  want  of  knowing  what 
else  to  say. 

"I  don't  think,"  he  went  on,  "it  can  hide 
me  any  longer.  I  love  you  too  much — I 
must  show  it  or  I  must  go  away." 

They  walked  on  without  speaking  for 
awhile. 

"Am  I  to  go?"  he  asked  at  last,  with  a 
pity  for  himself  in  his  tone. 

"No,"  she  said  at  once.  "Not  if  I  am  to 
decide  it."  But  her  voice  bore  no  hope  that 
she  meant  by  this  that  he  was  to  show  his 
love. 

"You  are  certainly  to  decide  it,"  he  said. 
"But  it  must  be  my  love — or  my  absence." 

"I— am  afraid,"  she  said,  falteringly, 
"that  I — do  not — love  you — yet." 

"But  how  much  longer  can  you  want  me 
to  wait?"  he  demanded,  with  a  brusqueness 
he  would  not  have  shown  were  it  not  for  the 
latent  plea  for  delay  in  her  voice.  "Week 
after  week  goes  by.  I  have  been  here  for  a 
[254] 


THE  KNIGHT' 


whole  winter.  What  must  people  think  of 
me?  What  will  you  come  to  think  of  me?" 

"I  was  hoping—  Jessica  began,  and 
then  stopped. 

"You  will  think  I  could  wait  forever  on 
that  hope — hope  of  what  I  hardly  know," 
he  cried.  "But  I  can't.  I  am  at  the  end 
of  my  strength.  I  must  go  if  you  have 
nothing  for  me." 

Again  there  was  silence. 

"You  will  not  go,"  said  Jessica  presently, 
"until  we  get  back  to  Paris?" 

"No." 

"Then"— with  a  little  sigh— "I  have  till 
then."  And  almost  in  silence  they  walked 
on  under  the  great  trees  and  down  the 
paved,  dull-walled  street  to  the  "pension." 

The  next  two  days  at  Fontainebleau 
were  mainly  a  wearying  perplexity  to  Jes- 
sica. What  was  this  love  she  was  waiting 
for?  Was  she  spoiling  her  life  for  a  school 
girl's  romantic  notion?  Here  was  a  man 
whose  mind  fitted  to  her's  like  a  seasoned 
yoke-fellow,  on  whose  strength  she  liked  to 
lean,  whose  judgments  seemed  to  her  the 
[255] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


wisest  and  most  just  in  the  world,  who  could 
act  as  pioneer  for  her  in  the  ever-widening 
domain  of  the  great  and  the  beautiful.  Yet 
she  hesitated  to  marry  him.  She  thought  of 
sending  him  away  forever,  and  going  on 
alone  in  life,  looking  for — what? 

Marry  him?  That  was  what  he  asked. 
Then  she  would  have  him  always  at  her  side 
— she  would  never  be  alone,  crowded  about 
by  those  who  saw  not  what  she  saw  nor  un- 
derstood what  she  said.  Marry  him?  She 
would  be  a  good  wife.  Marry  him?  He 
would  take  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss — No, 
she  could  not  stand  it.  If  he  were  sitting 
yonder  in  that  chair,  she  could  almost  say 
that  she  loved  him,  so  keenly  did  she  enjoy 
his  companionship;  but  were  he  beside  her 
here  on  the  sofa  as  a  lover,  she  must  run  up- 
stairs and  lock  herself  in  her  room  for  very 
terror.  Yet  if  she  said  this,  he  would  go; 
and  she  must  go  on  through  all  the  future 
without  him — without  any  one.  What  a 
weak  fool  she  was!  Girls  often  married 
where  they  did  not  love — where  they  did  not 
even  find  sympathetic  companionship  as  she 
[256] 


THE  KNIGHTJ 


would ;  and  yet  they  were  happy.  How  they 
would  envy  her  such  a  companion  in  her  hus- 
band! And  married  life  was  not  all  kissing 
— they  need  not  be  a  silly  couple — they 
would  be  nearer  together  far  than  most  who 
touched  wedded  hands. 

So,  puzzling  over  it  in  this  manner,  the 
problem  shadowed  her  mind  like  a  pene- 
trating, windless  fog.  She  could  see  little 
else,  no  matter  which  way  she  looked.  Was 
she  shown  a  noted  clump  of  trees;  "How 
would  I  like  to  live  there  with  Herr  Wer- 
ner?" she  would  ask  herself;  and  then  frown 
impatiently  at  her  folly.  The  Palais 
seemed  to  her  the  one  place  she  could  have 
for  a  home ;  for  there  Emperor  and  Empress 
had  apartments  apart  and  she  could  have 
her  women  about  her.  Rosa  Bonheur  alone 
at  By  brought  tears  to  her  eyes — the  great 
painter  had  no  Herr  Werner  near,  and  was 
driven  to  a  succession  of  woman  friends  to 
whom  she  clung  with  a  pathetic  affection. 
That  struck  her  chill;  and  she  knew  that  she 
was  getting  ready  to  say  "Stay"  to  Herr 
Werner  when  he  should  finally  ask  her. 

[257] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


So  silent  was  she  on  the  return  journey 
that  M.  Bilot  rallied  her  openly — hoping 
thereby  to  break  the  mood  that  had  kept  him 
out  of  mental  touch  of  her  for  two  long  days 
— but  Herr  Werner  reading  the  cause  in  her 
eyes,  said  only  in  parting — 

"I  will  call  in  the  morning." 

The  Egyptologist  "took  in,"  as  he  said  in 
his  English  way,  the  London  Telegraph 
and  the  latest  copy  lay  on  the  drawing-room 
table  as  she  settled  down  by  it  wearily  after 
dinner.  M.  Laforest  was  playing  bits  of 
Lohengrin  softly  on  the  piano — it  had  been 
but  a  tin-panny  affair  they  had  had  at  Bar- 
bison.  Jessica  picked  up  the  paper  with — 
to  her  American  eyes — its  dull,  unbroken 
columns,  and  its  formal  "headings"  which 
always  spoke  in  a  respectable  monotone  and 
saw,  without  interest,  that  Mr.  Chamberlain 
favored  the  temperance  people  doing  all  the 
good  they  could,  so  long  as  they  did  not 
bother  the  Government;  that  two  more 
Boer  commandoes  had  been  captured  and 
that  the  war  was  approaching  one  of  its  ter- 
mini; that  another  American  combine  pro- 
[258] 


THE  KNIGHT 


posed  to  capture  the  English  market  by 
really  surrendering  it  to  their  English  rivals 
— if  they  would  only  come  into  the  combina- 
tion; that  the  Archduchess  of  Somewhere 
was  going  to  make  a  love-match  which  ex- 
actly suited  the  dynastic  requirements;  that 
the  King  had  been  out  in  his  motor  car  the 
day  before;  that— 

Who  was  Captain  Hughes?  Not  her  Mr. 
Hughes ;  for  he  wasn't  in  the  army.  But  he 
had  a  brother  a  Captain  —  somewhere  in 
Africa.  And  this  was  in  Africa.  Capt. 
Hughes  had  held  his  station  at  some  out- 
landish place  near  the  Congo  against  a 
native  uprising  most  bravely.  "Splendid 
heroism,"  she  read;  "no  water — stockade  on 
fire — a  party  decoyed  out  and  trapped." 

Ah!  She  felt  the  suffocated  effect  of 
quickly  born  excitement.  This  was  what 
she  was  looking  for — fearing  to  find — "A 
Mr.  Theodore  Hughes,  brother  of  Capt. 
Hughes,  who  was  visiting  the  station, 
volunteered  when  the  condition  of  the  gar- 
rison grew  desperate,  to  try  to  make  his  way 
through  the  bush  to  the  main  post  for  help. 
[259] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


Capt.  Hughes  forbade  it;  but  the  young 
civilian  slipped  out  unnoticed  at  night,  leav- 
ing a  note  for  his  brother  saying  that  he 
knew  he  could  be  spared  because  he  was 
'such  a  cursed  poor  shot  and  yet  such  a  tax 
on  the  larder' " 

"How  like  him!"  glowed  Jessica. 

" — and,  after  many  hair-breadth  escapes, 

he  reached  the  main  post  at with  one 

arm  broken  by  a  fall,  and  faint  from  hun- 
ger. Col.  Blackader  at  once  despatched  as 
strong  a  force  as  he  could  spare  under  Capt. 
Trumbull,  a  gallant  officer  who  had  made 
a  record  in  the  Soudan  campaign;  and  after 
a  splendid  forced  march  through  the  trop- 
ical jungle,  they  drove  off  the  natives  and 
raised  the  siege,  and  none  too  soon,  for " 

But  there  was  little  else  for  Jessica  in  the 
remainder  of  the  despatch  except  that  Capt. 
Hughes  was  found  to  have  received  three 
wounds,  and  was  to  be  invalided  home  at 
once.  But  there  was  not  a  word  about  the 
condition  of  "the  young  civilian"  who  lay 
with  a  broken  arm  and  an  emaciated  frame 
in  a  fever  post  near  the  Congo.  The  na- 
[260] 


THE  KNIGHT" 


tives  were  to  be  punished,  and  the  despatch 
told  how  and  who  was  to  do  it,  and  what 
their  previous  record  had  been;  but  not 
whether  the  man  who  saved  the  garrison  was 
coming  home  with  his  brother  or  not.  At 
all  events,  he  must  be  alive;  for  it  would 
have  taken  only  two  or  three  more  words  to 
have  recorded  his  death. 

Jessica  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  her 
pulses  tingling.  That  was  Mr.  Hughes, 
through  and  through.  Brave  as  a  lion,  yet 
making  a  joke  of  it.  She  could  see  him, 
smiling  to  himself  as  he  slipped  over  the 
stockade  and  into  the  jungle,  thinking  more 
of  his  letter  to  his  brother  than  of  the  watch- 
ing death  in  the  shadow.  Had  she  met  him 
in  spirit  and  talked  of  his  magnificent  deed, 
he  would  have  stood  in  uncomfortable 
silence,  or,  possibly,  joked  again.  He  could 
not  have  told  of  it,  other  than  in  a  depreca- 
tory manner,  to  save  his  life.  Now  M. 
Bilot  would  have  related  every  incident  of 
the  adventure  with  great  gusto  and  engag- 
ing frankness,  acting  again  the  heroic  parts 
to  the  life;  while  Herr  Werner  would  have 
[261] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


analysed  his  inmost  soul  and  told  just  what 
he  thought  when  that  black  fall  left  him 
with  a  broken  arm,  and  the  midnight  jungle 
rustled  and  cried  about  him.  Even  if  some 
one  else  had  done  the  deed,  poor  Hughes 
could  never  have  analysed  the  man's  cour- 
age, any  more  than  he  could  have  painted 
his  spent,  limping  figure.  But  he  could  do 
the  thing  himself,  and  do  it  with  a  smile. 

For  some  reason,  her  mind  went  back  to 
the  old  hall  at  Meissen;  and  again  she  was 
looking  at  the  stiff  portraits  of  the  Saxon 
kings.  They  were  men  who  dared,  though 
with  the  grim  seriousness  of  their  race.  But 
was  it  likely  that  they  were  good  at  recount- 
ing their  exploits  or  theorising  about  the 
quality  of  their  courage?  As  she  came  to 
think  of  it,  she  doubted  it. 

Suddenly  there  flashed  into  her  mind 
what  she  had  once  said  to  Herr  Werner — 

"It  seems  to  me  that  these  people  would 
paint  a  knight's  armour,  while  you  would 
understand  his  very  spirit." 

"fYes,"  she  added  to  herself  now;  "and 
Mr.  Hughes  would  be  the  knight."  Then 
[262] 


THE  KNIGHT" 


she  sat  thinking;  and  her  thoughts  must 
have  been  cheerful,  for  she  smiled — though, 
in  a  swift  moment,  the  smile  was  gone  and 
anxiety  lay  in  her  eyes. 

The  next  morning  Herr  Werner  called; 
and  in  half  an  hour  he  was  gone  with  an  un- 
seeing eye  and  a  gray  face,  while  Jessica  sat 
steeped  in  sorrow  for  his  suffering.  But 
the  call  within  her  to  the  sick  bed  of  a 
wounded  knight  was  too  insistent  to  let  her 
hold  out  hope  any  longer  even  to  the  man 
who  had  guided  her  so  far  up  the  mountain 
side  of  life. 

"Dear  Herr  Werner,"  she  had  said  at 
last,  "you  more  than  any  other  living  soul 
opened  my  eyes  to  the  life  I  might  live. 
Can't  we  remain  friends?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "not  as  things  are.  I 
should  always  think  of  love  if  I  came  back 
to  you  a  hundred  years  hence.  If" — and 
he  seemed  to  find  it  hard  to  say — "if  you 
loved  another,  I  might  cover  my  love  by  very 
helplessness,  and  turn  it  into  deep,  tireless 
friendship;  but  as  it  is " 

"Herr  Werner;  if  I  open  my  soul  to  you, 
[263] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


will  you — will  you  hardly  look  at  all;  and 
then  forget  that  you  have  looked  ever  so 
little?" 

"Miss  Murney!" 

"I  suspect" — and  there  was  a  quivering 
light  in  her  eyes — "I  suspect  that  I  do 
love " 

"Oh!" 

"But  he  does  not  know  it — he  has  not 
asked  since 

Then  Herr  Werner  got  to  his  feet,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  window.  Neither  of 
them  spoke  as  he  took  his  hat  thoughtfully 
from  the  tumbled  centre  table.  Then  he 
said: 

"When  you  are  married,  perhaps — "  and 
turned  toward  the  door  without  so  much  as 
looking  at  Jessica  where  she  sat,  a-quiver 
with  sympathy.  And  that  was  their  part- 
ing. 


[264] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


In  London 

M.  BILOT,  who  prided  himself  on  reading 
people,  found  himself  puzzled  by  Jessica 
as  the  days  went  by.  At  first,  noting  the 
disappearance  of  Herr  Werner,  he  thought 
her  under  the  shadow  of  the  loss  of  a  friend 
who  had  suicided  by  turning  into  a  hopeless 
lover.  But  soon  he  came  to  put  a  question 
mark  after  the  "hopeless"  —  Jessica  re- 
mained so  long  enwrapped  in  her  abstrac- 
tion. Was  it  a  lovers'  quarrel?  M'lle 
Eglantine  had  thought  them  lovers,  but  he 
had  never  so  much  as  surprised  a  covert 
glance  between  them.  Still  he  might  be 
mistaken;  Germans  were  cold,  matter-of- 
fact  wooers.  So  he  laid  a  trap  for  Jessica. 
Walking  out  near  Bartholdi's  "Lion"  with 
her  one  morning  —  a  dull  morning  when  he 
would  not  trust  his  sense  of  color  —  he  talked 
to  her  in  a  passion  of  bitterness  of  the  Fran- 
[265] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


co-Prussian  war  and  heaped  all  a  French- 
man's lurid  opprobrium  on  the  "barbarian 
Germans" — but  Jessica  gave  him  her  sym- 
pathy. She  never  once  flashed  out,  as  he 
half -expected,  in  defence  of  Herr  Werner's 
countiymen.  She  could  not  love  Werner, 
he  thought;  and  drew  his  happy  experiment 
to  a  conclusion  by  mentioning  the  "British 
atrocities  in  South  Africa"  as  evidence  of 
the  similarity  of  all  Germanic  peoples — 
when  his  flash  of  protest  came.  Jessica  did 
not  believe  a  word  of  the  foolish  stories 
about  the  British  soldiers;  the  Englishman 
was  a  brave  gentleman  and  incapable  of 
cowardly  cruelties.  M.  Bilot  was  non- 
plussed for  a  moment ;  and  then  put  it  down 
to  the  solidarity  of  the  English  race.  But 
for  all  that,  his  wooing  made  no  progress. 
When  he  talked  of  art,  Jessica  listened  and 
questioned;  but  when  he  talked  of  her — 
with  his  open,  inoffensive  admiration — and 
of  himself — with  a  child-like  boastfulness 
that  seemed  almost  modest — Jessica  was 
either  inattentive  or  full  of  a  gentle  raillery. 
The  only  progress  he  made  was  when  talk- 
[266] 


IN  LONDON 

ing  to  Mrs.  Murney,  from  whom  he  got  a 
loose,  general  idea  that  her  people  were  per- 
sons of  great  wealth  and  corresponding  con- 
sequence. 

The  project  of  going  to  London  before 
"the  season"  closed  had  now,  of  course,  Jes- 
sica's support ;  and  within  a  week  after  Herr 
Werner's  departure,  it  was  simply  a  ques- 
tion of  when  Herr  Vogt  could  secure  for  her 
the  most  striking  "debut."  He  was  well 
known  in  musical  London;  his  word  for  it 
that  he  had  a  wonder  to  put  on  the  concert 
stage,  was  enough  to  get  a  place  in  most 
programmes.  And  finally  it  was  agreed 
that  she  should  sing  first  at  a  popular 
"morning  concert"  in  St.  James's  Hall,  then 
at  two  ultra-fashionable  functions  in  the 
Park  Lane  district,  then  once  for  a  Bohe- 
mian gathering,  including  all  the  New  York 
correspondents;  when  the  future  might  be 
left  on  the  knees  of  these — and  other — gods. 

The  "pension"  on  the    quiet    street  was 

sorry  to  see  them  go.     Madame  had  their 

favorite  dishes  prepared  for  their  last  meals. 

Mr.  Huntingdon  had  in  all  the  Americans 

[267] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


he  knew  one  afternoon  to  drink  his  tea  and 
bid  them  "good  bye."  The  French  party 
took  Jessica  for  several  farewell  walks  on 
the  night  boulevards,  and  introduced  her  to 
scenes  she  had  never  even  heard  of  before, 
and  begged  her,  with  what  she  thought  was 
superfluous  zeal,  never  to  forget  Paris.  And 
the  young  Egyptologist  gave  her  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  the  mummy  expert  in  the 
British  Museum,  with  the  assurance  that  he 
could  show  her  things  of  which  the  Louvre 
had  no  parallel. 

But  all  the  time,  Jessica — the  new  Jessica 
—the  Jessica  who  knew  not  Hughes  and  of 
whom  Hughes  despaired — weaved  for  her- 
self a  fanciful  picture  of  the  flower  of  the 
new  knighthood ;  it  was  a  young  man  with  a 
smooth,  firm-chinned  face  and  an  eye  given 
to  cynicism;  a  man  who  always  did  what  he 
thought  to  be  the  right  thing,  but  did  not 
take  himself  seriously  while  doing  it,  re- 
garding death  if  it  chanced  to  stand  in  the 
path  as  calling  for  nothing  but  a  laugh  in 
the  bully's  face.  But  this  was  not  all  that 
went  to  the  making  of  the  picture  of  Jessi- 
[268] 


IN  LONDON 

•+  i 

ca's  new  knight.  The  word  "knight"  itself 
has  a  subtle  suggestiveness  about  it — espe- 
cially to  the  mind  attuned  to  the  mediaeval 
note — which  carries  a  glint  of  color,  an  as- 
sertiveness  of  bearing,  a  romance  of  purpose 
into  any  descriptive  phrase  of  which  it  forms 
a  part.  Unconsciously,  Jessica  made 
Hughes  over  in  the  spirit  of  her  new  life- 
Hughes  being  far  distant  and  seen  only 
through  the  ennobling  medium  of  his  mag- 
nificent deed.  When  she  wondered  why 
she  had  not  seen  this  and  that  and  the  other 
quality  in  him  in  the  old  days  at  Dresden, 
she  put  it  down  to  lack  of  sight  on  her  own 
part;  for,  at  first,  was  she  not  merely  the 
blind  Jessica  of  the  valley,  and,  at  last,  was 
not  her  new  vision  an  unaccustomed  gift, 
needing  some  illuminating  incident  to  en- 
able it  to  pierce  the  self-deprecating,  self- 
suppressing  Hughes  exterior? 

It  was  May  in  London  when  the  tired  trio 
from  Paris  drove  up  to  their  lodgings  near 
Russell  Square,  having  met  a  procession  of 
"sandwich  men"  on  High  Holborn  clothed 
mainly  in  an  announcement  of  the  "morn- 
[269] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


ing  concert"  at  St.  James's  Hall  at  which 
"Miss  Jessica  Murney"  was  to  appear — and 
Miss  Jessica  had  the  largest  type  on  the  bill. 
It  was  only  two  days  later  in  May  when 
Capt.  Hughes  arrived  at  Victoria  station  ac- 
companied by  his  brother,  they  having  just 
landed  from  the  steamer  that  had  brought 
the  wounded  contingent  from  the  beleag- 
uered West  African  post.  The  British  pub- 
lic hardly  knew  of  their  little  affair,  in 
wrhich  only  a  half-dozen  clean-limbed  young 
Englishmen  had  been  wiped  out  and  twice 
as  many  maimed;  for  a  more  wholesale  and 
spectacular  killing  was  going  on  farther 
south.  But  Capt.  Hughes's  wife  met  them, 
and  she  almost  fainted  when  she  saw  her 
brother-in-law  get  out  of  the  compartment 
with  his  arm  in  a  sling  and  then  pass  in  his 
well  hand  to  a  tall,  limp  figure  which  stum- 
bled down  to  the  platform  with  the  helpless 
uncertainty  of  a  man  newly  blind — and  not 
Used  to  it.  They  had  not  written  her  that 
he  was  blind.  Blind!  Good  God!  Blind 
at  twenty -eight !  His  profession  closed  to 
him,  and  no  money  to  live  on ! — and  she  with 
[270] 


IN  LONDON 
i  > 

two  children!     But  he  was  a  brave  soldier, 
and  she — 

Her  arms  were  round  his  neck,  and  his 
arms  were  round  her  with  a  convulsive 
grasp.  "I'm  not  blind,  Dora!"  was  the  first 
thing  he  said.  "Not  blind! — do  you  under- 
stand. Don't  be  afraid,  little  girl.  My 
eyes  only  need  rest." 

And  then  she  began  crying.  She  was 
braced  to  greet  the  worst  with  a  brave  word ; 
but  at  the  reprieve,  she  relaxed  into  a  sob- 
bing woman. 

It  was  a  common  "poster"  on  a  dead-wall 
that  told  Hughes  that  Jessica  was  to  sing 
the  following  Saturday  afternoon  at  St. 
James's  Hall ;  and  he  determined  to  stay  and 
hear  her.  After  so  long  an  abstinence  he 
could  humor  himself  this  much.  She  would 
not  see  in  the  great  crowd  that  he  was  there, 
but  he  would  see  her  again — the  olive  cheek, 
the  round  column  of  the  throat,  the  soft, 
nestling  hand.  So,  after  dinner,  he  went 
to  his  brother's  room  to  stipulate  for  the  loan 
of  a  pair  of  strong  glasses  he  had. 
[271] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"But  you  can't  stay  here  alone  till  Satur- 
day," said  the  captain. 

"I  am  of  age,"  returned  Hughes,  "Your 
wife  will  take  you  down  home  and  let  you 
smell  the  hawthorn." 

"But  the  fever  might  come  back." 

"Not  in  England." 

"Well,  we  don't  go." 

"Yes,  you  do.  I'll  take  you  down,  and 
then  slip  back." 

"Not  if  mother  gets  hold  of  you." 

"Whew!— That's  so!"  said  Hughes. 

"No;  Dora  and  I'll  stay,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain. "I  want  to  hear  Miss  Jessica  myself." 
His  brother  looked  up  in  alarm.  "Not  a 
word,  Teddy,  my  boy.  Not  a  word!"  said 
the  Captain,  feeling  the  look,  though  he 
could  not  see  it;  and  Hughes  knew  that  he 
meant  he  would  tell  no  one  of  how  he  had 
heard  the  name  of  Jessica  on  the  hot,  fever- 
laden  dark  of  the  Congo  nights. 

The  next  afternoon  there  were  two  ladies 

asking  for  Mr.   Theodore  Hughes  in  the 

hotel  parlor,  and  the  names  on  the  card  they 

sent  up  were  "Mrs.  Murney"    and    "Miss 

[272] 


IN  LONDON 
^  i 

Jessica  Murney."  They  had  happened  on 
the  "personal"  in  the  morning  paper  which 
told  of  the  arrival  of  the  Hughes  brothers, 
and  where  they  were  staying.  When 
Hughes  came  in,  Jessica  met  him  with  both 
hands  out — 

"There  is  nothing  one  can  say  to  you," 
she  said.  "We  have  worn  out  all  our  words 
on  inferior  deeds." 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come,"  he  re- 
sponded. "How  did  you  ever  learn  where 
we  were?" 

"Oh,  even  your  English  papers  managed 
to  record  the  return  of  two  heroes." 

He  laughed  a  little  uncomfortably.  "You 
are  going  to  sing,  I  see,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "I'm  coming  out  in 
London;"  and  Mrs.  Murney  went  on  to 
give  further  particulars. 

"Oh!  Lord  Dovercourt's !"  exclaimed 
Hughes,  when  he  heard  that  Jessica  was  to 
sing  there.  "You  will  see  rather  good  peo- 
ple there,  you  know." 

"Yes — the  people  who  stay  home  and 
[273] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


patronize    real    men,    like    you    and    your 
brother,"  exploded  Jessica. 

"Oh!  They  are  ready  enough  to  fight," 
cried  Hughes,  with  an  Englishman's  loyalty 
to  his  aristocracy.  This  led  to  a  little  of 
the  familiar  banter  between  the  New  Eng- 
lander  and  the  Old;  and  Hughes  began  to 
feel  an  approach  of  the  spirit  of  those  first 
days  at  Dresden.  But  Jessica  was  never 
farther  from  them.  This  was  her  Knight; 
and  she  was  his  Lady,  seated  under  her  can- 
opy of  red  and  gold,  with  the  clanging  field 
of  chivalry  beneath  her.  True  to  this  point 
of  view,  she  tried  to  lead  him  to  talk  of 
that  night  in  the  jungle;  but  there  was 
nothing  that  he  could  say  of  it,  except  that 
it  was  dark  and  that  he  was  mortally  afraid 
of  snakes.  Then  he  grew  indignant  at  the 
stupid  policy  of  his  Government,  which 
planted  so  isolated  a  post  among  treacher- 
ous natives.  So  Jessica  talked  of  the  jun- 
gle which  she  had  never  seen,  save  in  fancy ; 
and  Hughes  grew  moody  at  what  he  re- 
garded as  a  return  of  Wernerism.  And  all 
[274] 


IN  LONDON 

\ 1 

the  time  she  pitied  his  arm  in  its  white  sling, 
and  grieved,  mother-fashion,  over  the  lean- 
ness of  his  firm  jaw.  As  for  him,  he  greed- 
ily enjoyed  again  the  play  of  rose  on  her 
dark  cheek,  and  watched  her  hands  as  they 
nested  themselves  cosily  and  more  cosily  in 
her  lap.  Never  were  two  people  more  in 
love  with  each  other  through  the  eyes;  yet 
each  felt  a  difficulty  in  finding  the  other 
mentally. 

When  it  came  time  to  go,  Hughes  said 
that  he  would  get  his  brother  and  his  wife, 
for  he  would  like  them  all  to  meet  one  an- 
other; and  soon  the  five  were  engaged  in  the 
spasmodic,  erratic  game  of  conversation 
that  semi-strangers  play.  Capt.  Hughes 
said,  jokingly,  that  "Teddy"  had  a  great 
preference  for  simple  music ;  and  Teddy  said 
that  Miss  Murney  knew  that  already,  and 
asked  if  she  remembered  singing  "Sweet 
Vale  of  Avoca"  that  night  long  ago  in 
Dresden.  Jessica  remembered  and  her  eyes 
shone  on  Hughes  as  she  said  so.  She 
added  that  she  liked  simple,  heart  music  her- 
[275] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


self;  and  Hughes  felt  that  at  last  their 
minds  were  holding  hands  as  it  had  been 
their  will  to  do  from  the  first. 

"Sing  'Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca'  on  Satur- 
day," he  said  lightly,  but  his  eyes  were  grave 
with  meaning. 

"Yes,"  said  Jessica,  with  quick  eagerness; 
"I  will."  Who  should  be  humored  if  not 
the  hero-knight?  Then  the  thought  of  what 
Herr  Vogt  would  say,  and  of  what  the  mu- 
sical public  would  think,  came  to  her;  and 
she  doubted.  Hughes  was  watching  and 
saw  the  doubt  fill  her  face.  "She  has  just 
thought  of  what  my  request  means,"  he  said 
to  himself;  "and  she  does  not  want  to  en- 
courage me  to  hope  again." 

Now  Jessica  spoke — 

"It  may  not  be  best  to  sing  it  after  all," 
she  said.  "I  will  see."  And  she  was  very  se- 
rious over  it;  for  she  wanted  him  to  know 
that  his  wish  weighed  deeply  with  her.  But 
he  read  in  her  seriousness  a  sorrow  that  he 
had  again  raised  the  old  question,  and  would 
have  said  something  tantamount  to  a  with- 
[276] 


IN  LONDON 
i  i       i 

drawal — being  ever  chivalrously  tender  to  a 
woman,  no  matter  at  what  cost  to  himself — 
but  at  that  moment  her  face  brightened  and 
she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  in  "adieu,"  with, 
"I  will  try  hard  to  sing  it." 


[277] 


WOULD  she  sing  it?  What  had  she 
meant  by  saying  that  she  would  "try  hard 
to  sing  it"?  Why  should  she  "try  hard"  to 
encourage  him  to  hope  for  her  love? — for 
that  was  what  it  meant  to  him.  It  was  not 
a  thing  to  be  tried  for — it  was  a  case  of 
knowing  at  once  whether  she  wanted  it  or  not. 
But  it  might  have  been  a  chance  phrase 
meant  to  cover  a  deeper  meaning.  At  all 
events,  the  thing  was — would  she  sing  it? 
For  the  rest  of  the  week  there  was  no  other 
question  before  Hughes — a  Hughes,  be  it 
remembered,  who  had  left  much  of  his  equi- 
poise on  a  recent  fever-bed. 

The  lady  from  Maine  was  in  town,  saw 
the  Hughes  "personal"  and  called. 

"I  knew  you  had  it  in  you,"  she  said  ad- 
miringly. "I  have  known  it  from  that 
[278] 


"SWEET  VALE  OF  AVOCA" 

night. — Sh-sh!  No.  I  mention  no  names. 
You  can  depend  on  me." 

"I  should  hope  so,"  said  Hughes  with 
genuine  disquietude. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  assured  him.  "But 
Sam  is  getting  reckless — he  thinks  it  too 
good  a  joke  on  me— 

"But  he  mustn't,"  cried  Hughes  energet- 
ically. 

"I  wish  you  could  scare  him  into  keeping 
'mum'  some  way,"  sighed  the  lady  from 
Maine.  "If  my  brother  ever  gets  hold  of 
it — ";  and  she  sighed  again.  "Yet  it  was  a 
brave,  good,  chivalrous  thing  to  do,"  she 
went  on  emphatically;  and  then  she  broke 
off  with — "Say!  Of  course  you  know  the 
Murneys  are  here?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hughes. 

"And  Herr  Werner?" 

"No.     Is  he?" 

The  lady  from  Maine  nodded.  "I  saw 
him  with  Herr  Vogt  on  Oxford  Street." 

"With  Herr  Vogt?"  exclaimed  Hughes 
in  surprise.  Why  had  not  the  Murneys 
mentioned  him?  "I  will  try  hard  to  sing 
[279] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


it,"  Jessica  had  said.  Was  she  struggling 
against  Werner's  influence?  He  had  hoped, 
when  they  said  nothing  of  Werner,  that  the 
moony  German  had  not  followed  them  to 
London.  But  why  should  he  hope  it? 
Was  Werner  a  fool  to  let  a  song  bird  in  his 
hand  escape?  Then  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether; for  he  noticed  that  the  lady  from 
Maine  was  talking  about  a  curious  case  of 
hypnotism  that  had  occurred  in  Algiers, 
where  she  and  her  husband  had  spent  the 
winter.  It  was  a  young  man  who  was  so 
under  the  influence  of  a  withered  old  crone 
— a  native — that  he  would  get  up  from  the 
"pension"  table  at  meal  time  to  go  to  her, 
believing  that  she  had  summoned  him;  and 
he  finally  married  into  her  family,  dressing 
as  an  Algerian.  "And  after  that,"  said  the 
lady  from  Maine,  "he  was  no  longer  hypno- 
tized— they  say  he  used  to  beat  the  old 
woman — but  his  nature  was  entirely 
changed;  and  he  really  became  one  of 
them." 

At  the  time,  Hughes  thought  nothing  of 
this  incident,  lumping  it  with  the  jumbled 
[280] 


"SWEET  VALE  OF  AVOCA" 

mass  of  incongruous  experiences  related  by 
the  lady  from  Maine;  but  when  his  mind 
went  back  by  the  familiar  channel  to  Jessica, 
he  wondered  if  Werner's  hypnotic  influence 
might  not  finally — if  it  had  not  done  so  al- 
ready— work  a  permanent  change  in  her 
character.  More  than  ever  the  question 
was,  "Would  she  sing  'Sweet  Vale  of 
Avoca'?"  thus  signalling  to  him  a  message 
of  encouragement.  Jove!  How  easy  it 
would  be  if  such  a  message  could  be  got  by 
dropping  over  a  stockade  at  midnight,  and 
plunging  into  the  jungle!  He  might  re- 
turn her  call,  and  put  all  to  the  test  of  a 
question;  but,  after  his  failure  at  Lucerne 
and  his  long  hopelessness,  he  felt  that  he 
could  do  nothing  till  she  flew  her  song-signal 
of  hope.  He  must  wait  for  that. 

The  Hughes  trio  went  early  to  St. 
James's  Hall  to  attend  their  "morning  con- 
cert" which  took  place  in  the  afternoon. 
Capt.  Hughes  had  improved  already  so 
he  could  move  slowly  along  an  uncrowded 
street  without  help,  except  at  the  crossings; 
and  his  wife  wore  a  look  of  peace  again. 
[281] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


But  "Teddy"  had  not  been  so  well.  The 
fever  burned  occasionally  in  his  cheek  and 
at  the  temples;  for,  in  his  reduced  state,  the 
longing  wonder  over  what  Jessica  would  do 
was  no  light  anxiety.  From  their  seats  in 
the  front  row  of  the  gallery  they  watched 
the  audience  come  in;  and,  with  great  de- 
light, Hughes  pointed  out  to  his  sister-in-law 
the  lady  from  Maine  and  her  husband. 
After  a  time,  the  tall  form  of  Herr  Werner 
showed  against  the  mass  at  the  entrance,  but 
Hughes  was  silent.  Would  that  luminous 
head  forbid  "Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca"?  Could 
it? 

Jessica  was  down  twice  upon  the  pro- 
gramme— both  German  songs.  But,  of 
course,  that  was  to  be  expected.  She  could 
not  put  a  simple  air  on  the  printed  pro- 
gramme— Hughes  knew  enough  of  musical 
"good  form"  for  that.  It  would  come  as  one 
of  the  "encores."  There  was  other  music. 
A  big  fellow  with  waving  hair  blocked  the 
stage  for  a  while  with  a  fat  'cello,  and  for  a 
moment  Hughes  feared  that  he  would  be  re- 
called ;  but  the  applause  died  away  before  he 
[282] 


"SWEET  VALE  OF  AVOCA" 

could  decently  come  back.  Then  there  was 
a  song  largely  composed  of  bass  growls  and 
stentorian  invocations;  then  an  old  favorite 
with  Hughes  played  the  violin  and  he  for- 
got for  a  while  his  anxiety;  then  a  tall,  thin 
girl,  with  a  tall,  thin  voice;  and  then — Jes- 
sica! 

The  audience  sat  as  if  caught  in  a  spell — 
all  except  an  old  man  near  them  who  "con- 
ducted" for  Jessica,  while  she  sang,  with  a 
happy,  uplifted  face  and  two  tremulous 
hands,  vibrant  in  the  air.  Hughes  had 
never  heard  her  sing  in  public  before — that 
is,  the  great,  strange  public  of  the  concert 
hall.  Just  at  first,  the  apparent  lack  of 
purpose  in  her  music — to  his  unmusical  ear 
— held  him  at  bay;  then  came  a  note  that 
was  the  familiar  Jessica,  and  after  that  he 
seemed  to  hear  the  song  only  in  his  heart. 
If  he  could  have  seen  poor  Werner  at  this 
time,  some  part  of  the  load  of  anxiety  which 
he  had  been  carrying  for  days  past  would 
have  gone  forever.  On  Herr  Werner's 
face  was  stamped  such  a  look  as  one  might 
wear  whose  best  loved  was  dead,  but  had 
[283] 


THE  PENSIONNAIEES 


now  seemed  to  have  come  back  again — and  to 
have  come  to  others. 

When  Jessica  finished,  the  applause  that 
broke  out,  first  rapturous  and  then  deter- 
mined, made  Hughes's  decision  to  insist 
upon  an  "encore"  superfluous.  So  he  got 
the  bouquet  he  had  chosen  ready  to  send  to 
her  when  she  should  have  sung  his  Irish  air. 
She  came  back  smiling  and  bowed  and  sang 
— something  Italian.  Her  reception  had 
pleased  her,  and  she  showed  it.  But  she 
had  no  notion  that  Mr.  Hughes  had  at- 
tached any  such  importance  to  his  request 
for  the  "Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca"  as,  in  his 
fever- weakened  condition,  he  had;  so  when 
Herr  Vogt  had  scouted  it  at  first  hearing, 
she  had  pressed  it  no  farther,  thinking  that 
a  sufficient  reason  to  give  Hughes  when  she 
should  see  him.  And  there  was  a  feeling 
now  in  her  breast,  born  of  maiden  shyness, 
that  she  should  leave  it  to  him  at  this  point 
to  take  his  natural  man's  right  of  initiative. 
He  might  have  returned  her  call,  and  he  had 
not. 

Hughes  sat  stolid  in  his  chair  and  listened 
[284] 


"SWEET  VALE  OF  AVOCA" 
t  fr 

to  the  Italian  song — not  with  his  heart  now, 
hardly  with  his  ears.  This  was  the  far-away 
Jessica — Werner's  Jessica.  What  a  weak 
folly  it  was  in  him  to  think  that  she  had  meant 
anything  by  her  call  but  a  kind  gratula- 
tion  on  his  escape  from  death!  However, 
retreat  was  not  in  his  make-up,  so  he  waited 
for  the  next  song,  and  the  next  "encore." 
They  came  in  time — both  of  them.  But 
never  once  did  her  voice  bear  out  to  his  ear 
the  familiar  strains.  Quicker  and  quicker 
in  the  hot  atmosphere  had  the  pulse  at  his 
temple  beaten ;  and  by  the  time  he  had  heard 
her  second  "recall,"  and  knew  that  it  was 
not  that  for  which  he  waited,  the  throbbing 
pulse  had  turned  into  a  roll  of  drums — the 
drums  of  the  relieving  force — and  that  was 
all  he  heard. 

When  they  carried  him  out  after  Jessica 
had  finished,  the  bouquet  he  had  meant  for 
her  rolled  from  his  lap  to  the  floor;  and  the 
man  who  rushed  down  from  "standing 
room"  to  seize  the  vacant  chair,  put  his  heel 
on  it. 

Jessica  did  not  hear  until  the  following 
[285] 


THE   PENSIONNAIRES 


Wednesday  why  it  was  that  the  Hughes 
party  had  not  waited  for  her  in  the  Hall 
after  the  concert,  and  why  Mr.  Theodore 
Hughes  had  not  called  since.  The  lady 
from  Maine,  her  husband  and  Herr  Werner 
had  waited,  but  no  Hughes.  The  lady  from 
Maine  had  seen  Mr.  Hughes  in  the  gallery, 
but  had  not  seen  him  go.  So  Jessica  went 
home,  her  elation  in  the  day's  success  lost; 
and  it  was  with  an  uneasy  eye  that  Herr 
Vogt  regarded  his  marvellous  but  uncertain 
pupil. 

On  Wednesday,  Jessica  met  Mrs.  Capt 
Hughes,  who  had  come  up  to  town  to  get  a 
specially  trained  nurse  for  her  brother-in- 
law.  They  had  managed,  she  told  the  wide- 
eyed  Jessica,  to  get  him  down  home  after  his 
seizure  at  the  concert ;  but  they  did  not  know 
how  the  tearing  delirium  which  was  now 
tossing  him  about  on  a  sleepless  bed  might 
end.  His  strength  had  been  so  badly  eaten 
out  by  the  African  fever  before  they  started 
for  England.  "I  am  sure  you  couldn't  do 
it,"  she  began,  with  the  tenderness  of  a  good 
woman  who  is  most  reluctant  to  locate  blame 
[286] 


"SWEET  VALE  OF  AVOCA" 
t       t  K 

when  she  feels  it  is  most  deserved,  "but  it  is 
too  bad  that  you  could  not  have  sung  'Sweet 
Vale  of  Avoca.'     He  seemed  so  set  on  it." 
"Did  he  say  so?"  cried  Jessica. 
"Say  so?"  repeated  Mrs.  Hughes  sadly. 
"Not  a  word  before;  but  he  has  hardly  said 
anything  else  since." 

"O-oh! — in  his  delirium,"  breathed  Jes- 
sica. 

Mrs.  Hughes  nodded  slightly  with  set 
lips.  They  were  two  silent  women  who 
faced  each  other  then  amidst  the  roll  of  a 
London  street ;  and,  from  that  time  on,  Mrs. 
Capt.  Hughes  knew  that  Jessica  loved 
"Teddy"  as  "Teddy"  loved  her.  And  Jes- 
sica knew  that  she  knew.  So  it  was  without 
any  premise  that  she  said: 

"Could  you  take  me  down  with  you?" 
"Yes.     I  leave  Paddington  at  5.10." 
"Mother  and  I  will  meet  you  on  the  plat- 
form— and  go  to  the  hotel." 

"There  will  be  room  at  the  house,  but — " 
"We  will  go  to  the  hotel,"  repeated  Jes- 
sica with  a   touching   smile  that   told  her 
thanks. 

[287] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


Herr  Vogt,  when  she  got  back  to  their 
lodgings,  pronounced  an  instantaneous  and 
imperial  veto.  It  was  madness — it  was  im- 
possible— it  was  Friday  night  that  she  was 
to  sing  at  Lord  Dovercourt's.  She  would 
be  all  out  of  tune — she  would  be  depressed 
— she  would  her  fine  reputation  ruin.  Mrs. 
Murney  was  silent,  with  a  numb  feeling 
where  she  was  usually  conscious  of  her  am- 
bitions. The  column  of  Jessica's  throat 
held  her  head  at  a  firm  poise,  her  eyes  had 
the  glint  of  a  fixed  purpose,  and  the  swell 
of  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  her  quick 
breathing;  and  she  got  her  mother's  things 
and  her  own  ready  for  the  journey.  All 
she  said  to  Herr  Vogt  was  that  she  was 
going,  and  that  she  hoped  for  his  sake — and 
for  her  own — that  she  would  be  back,  well 
and  bright,  for  Friday. 

"Go  vith  her!  Go  vith  her!"  Herr  Vogt 
cried  at  last  to  Mrs.  Murney;  "and  pring 
her  pack,  tod  or  alife." 


[288] 


CHAPTER    XXVI 


A  RIVER  flowing  softly  through  green 
banks,  and  ever  brimming  over  a  weir.  An 
arched  bridge  spanning  it,  and  over  it  a  road 
that  on  the  further  bank  becomes  the  street 
of  a  quiet  village.  Door-yards  rilled  with 
old-fashioned  flowers;  stone  houses  for  the 
most  part  with  windows  enframed  in  vines. 
An  inn,  with  a  creaking  sign  in  front—  "The 
Jolly  Hostler"  —  and  a  driveway  through 
the  lower  story  between  the  coffee  room  and 
the  bar  into  an  inner  court.  A  gray,  plain 
church  with  a  square,  plain  tower  in  a  grass- 
tossed,  mossy-marbled  grave-yard.  A  long, 
low  stone  wall  at  the  upper  end  of  the  vil- 
lage, curving  in  finally  to  great  gates, 
through  which  a  driveway  sweeps  into  an 
avenue  of  chestnuts  —  and  beyond  the 
Hughes  homestead. 

Jessica  and  Mrs.  Murney  stopped  at 
[289] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"The  Jolly  Hostler,"  and  Mrs.  Capt. 
Hughes  and  the  nurse  went  on  to  the  avenue 
of  chestnuts  and  the  anxious  house  at  the 
end — silent  save  for  the  ravings  of  one  poor 
panting  being  who  ran  the  gamut  of  hope, 
anxiety  and  despair  with  sickening  regular- 
ity. It  was  far  oftener  despair  than  any- 
thing else,  for  he  lived  over  again  those 
weary,  empty,  ghastly  West  African  days 
when  with  the  tireless  doggedness  of  his 
race  he  sought  to  murder  memory.  The 
Captain  knew  nothing  at  that  time  of  his 
trouble,  for  he  confessed  only  to  ennui  when 
he  came;  but  when  he  lay  on  his  fever  cot 
at  the  "post"  the  Captain  learned  much  of  a 
girl  whose  name  was  Jessica,  and  whose 
throat  was  round  and  full  like  that  of  a 
Greek  goddess,  and  in  whose  cheek  the  rose 
had  a  trick  of  coming  and  going,  and  whose 
hands  were  soft  and  cool — cool.  "Jessica! 
Ah — beg  pardon — Miss  Murney,"  he  would 
say,  huskily.  "Would  you — just  put  your 
hand — on  my  forehead.  Thanks — delicious 
— delicious!" — and  sometimes  he  would  go 
to  sleep  thus. 

[290] 


ANOTHER  "VALE 


But  there  was  more  than  this.  There 
were  passionate  outbreaks  against  a  doubly- 
condemned,  blackguardly,  cowardly  dog  of 
a  German  hypnotist — a  vampire — a  man 
who  would  not  "stand  up  to  it" — and  some- 
times there  was  talk  of  a  "rescue,"  followed 
by  much  self -contempt  and  muttering 
shame.  And  then  there  would  be  brighter 
intervals,  walking  the  paths  of  a  "Garten" 
and  playing  amid  the  flowers. 

But  now  the  tortured  stoic-faced  Cap- 
tain found  a  new  interlude  in  the  delirium 
into  which  the  patient  ran  again  and  again. 
It  began  with  a  reserved  pleasure — an  ecsta- 
sy held  well  in  hand — over  a  new  meeting 
with  a  restored  Jessica — almost  the  old  Jes- 
sica, by  Jove ! — quite  the  old  Jessica,  for  she 
would  sing  "Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca" — of 
cotirse  she  would  sing  it;  she  said  she  would 
try  hard.  But  Werner  was  in  town.  Well, 
they  would  see.  Of  course,  she  would  sing 
it.  She  had  said — And  so  the  raving  went 
on  in  an  ever-maddening  paroxysm  of  anx- 
iety, until  he  would  shout  out  that  she  was 
coming  to  sing  it — that  there  she  was — 
[291] 


THE   PENSIONNAIRES 


didn't  they  all  see  her? — but,  of  course  not — 
they  didn't  know  what  she  was  going  to  sing 
— only  he  knew  that — only  he — he  and  she 
— it  was  their  secret — 

And  now  she  was  singing — now  she  was 
singing — And  his  voice  would  die  away  to 
a  whisper — "Not  it" — the  Captain  had  to 
bend  over  him  to  hear  what  he  was  say- 
ing— "Not  it.  Not  it.  Not  it" — in  mourn- 
ful repetition.  After  each  of  these  par- 
oxysms, he  seemed  visibly  to  sink. 

All  day  Thursday,  he  did  not  regain  con- 
sciousness; and  though  Jessica  and  Mrs. 
Murney  went  up  the  avenue  of  chestnuts 
three  times  and  shook  hands  with  a  tearful 
group  of  women — mostly  in  silence — and 
talked  in  low  tones  with  Mr.  Hughes,  Sen., 
in  a  corner  of  the  garden  whither  he  led 
them  out  of  hearing  of  the  house,  they  did 
not  think  it  safe  to  let  Jessica  within  the 
sick  room — nor  did  she  feel  herself  in  any 
position  to  urge  it.  Friday  morning 
brought  two  urgent  telegrams  from  Herr 
Vogt,  one  to  Jessica  and  one  to  Mrs.  Mur- 
ney. Jessica  should  come  back  by  an  early 

[89*] 


ANOTHER  "VALE" 


train  so  as  to  get  her  nerves  in  order.  That 
night  was  the  great  night  on  which  all  things 
defended.  Jessica  said,  "We  will  go  up 
and  see  how  he  is." 

"But  you  will  sing  to-night!"  pleaded 
her  mother. 

"Yes,"  said  Jessica  after  a  little — "if  he 
is  no  worse." 

There  was  no  change;  so  she  told  Mrs. 
Capt.  Hughes  of  her  engagement  at  Lord 
Dovercourt's,  and  what  it  meant  to  Herr 
Vogt  and  her  mother,  and  said  that  she 
would  come  up  again  in  the  afternoon  and 
then  leave  by  the  four  o'clock  train — if  Mrs. 
Hughes  would  promise  faithfully  to  send 
her  a  telegram  that  night  and  another  in 
the  morning.  Mrs.  Hughes  promised, 
and  said  that  it  was  too  bad  that  she  had  to 
sing  when  she  felt  so  anxious. 

"The  public,"  said  Jessica,  smiling  rue- 
fully, "is  like  a  cat — very  amiable  when  it 
is  stroked  the  right  way,  but  it  would  never 
think  of  going  without  a  meal  simply  be- 
cause the  song  bird  it  had  bargained  for 
was  needed  at  the  nest." 
[293] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


When  they  came  up  to  take  leave  in  the 
afternoon,  Mrs.  Capt.  Hughes  was  the  only 
one  who  could  speak  to  them.  "Teddy" 
was  worse.  He  had  had  a  bad  spell,  and 
was  now  deeper  in  the  fogs  of  delirium  than 
ever.  Jessica  stood  breathless  for  a  minute; 
then — "I  cannot  go,  Mamma!"  she  said. 

"But  Jessica!"  was  all  her  mother  said. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Jessica  humbly — she 
was  thinking  of  the  crumbling  of  her 
mother's  dreams.  "And  Herr  Vogt  would 
be  so  disappointed,  too."  Then — "Could 
I  see  him,  do  you  think?" 

"I'll  ask  the  Doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Hughes; 
and  in  a  few  moments  the  Doctor  came  in 
with — "Yes.  It  can  do  no  harm." 

"Oh!  Don't  say  that!"  cried  Jessica,  go- 
ing up  to  him.  "It  sounds  so  hopeless." 

The  Doctor — an  old  man  with  a  bushy 
whisker — wiped  his  moustache  away  from 
his  mouth,  and  coughed — and  smiled — and 
started  bravely  out  with — "But  you  don't 
want — "  And  then  he  stopped.  He  could 
not  make  his  obvious  joke.  His  lips  came 
together  again.  Then  he  put  his  hand  on 
[294] 


ANOTHER  "VALE 


Jessica's  shoulder.  "I  wish,"  he  said,  "he 
could  see  that  look  on  your  face,  poor  lad. 
It  would  cure  him." 

Then  Jessica  went  up  and  sat  in  the  chair 
they  placed  for  her  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
Hughes  with  flushed  face  and  tossed  hair 
lay  muttering,  sightless,  before  her;  and  she 
knew  only  that  grief  was  strangling  her.  A 
pain  came  in  the  centre  of  her  forehead  and 
pressed  dully  on  her  mind.  The  mutter- 
ings  became  coherent — he  was  in  his  old 
paroxysm  of  anxiety,  eagerly  assuring  him- 
self again  and  again  that  she  would  sing  his 
chosen  air.  Mrs.  Capt.  Hughes  touched 
her  on  the  shoulder.  "Would  you  like  to 
go  out?"  she  said.  Jessica  grasped  her  hand 
for  answer,  and  sat  upright  and  still.  With 
pitiless  slowness,  the  delirium  went  its  usual 
course.  He  was  confident — he  doubted — at 
last,  he  saw  her  come.  Would  she — would 
she  sing  it?  Did  they  not  see  her?  No! 
Of  course  not.  Only  she  and  he  knew  what 
she  would  sing — it  was  their  secret — now 
she  was  singing — what  was  it? 

And  then,  in  that  hushed  chamber,  gray 
[295] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


with  the  shadow  of  death,  rose  from  the 
white  lips  of  the  erect  woman  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  now  leaning  somewhat  forward,  the 
soft,  sweet  strains  of  "Sweet  Vale  of 
Avoca."  The  poor  mother  looked  up  from 
her  chair,  where  she  had  been  silently  weep- 
ing, and  held  out  a  hand  to  stop  her ;  but  the 
Doctor  took  the  forbidding  hand  in  his  and 
motioned  Jessica  to  go  on.  But  Jessica  saw 
neither  of  them.  The  voice  of  the  sick  man, 
as  it  had  pleaded  for  the  song,  filled  her 
mind.  So  on  she  sang,  and  the  flushed  man 
on  the  bed  ceased  muttering — then  he 
turned  his  eyes  toward  her;  and  she  came 
to  the  end  of  her  song. 

"Sing  it  again,"  said  the  Doctor,  quick 
and  sharp;  and  again  Jessica  sang  it 
through.  Hughes  lay  listening  in  silence 
and  his  breathing  became  more  regular. 

"Well,  that  beats  Beecham,"  muttered  the 
Doctor  to  his  beard ;  and,  crossing  to  Jessica, 
asked — "Can  you  stay  to  sing  that  when  he 
gets  bad  again?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jessica  simply. 

"But — but  your  engagement,"  whispered 
[296] 


ANOTHER  "VALE" 


Mrs.  Captain  Hughes  at  no  little  cost  to 
herself. 

"I  have  not  forgotten,"  replied  Jessica; 
and,  going  down  stairs  she  put  her  arms 
around  her  mother,  and  told  her  what  had 
happened.  And  Mrs.  Murney,  without  a 
word,  went  to  the  postoffice  and  wired  Herr 
Vogt- 

" Jessica  cannot  come.  Cannot,  you  un- 
derstand. Am  writing." 

And  that  night  when  a  distracted  musical 
manager  was  apologising  to  Lord  Dover- 
court — and  especially  to  Lady  Dovercourt 
— for  the  absence  of  his  "star,"  and  when 
another  young  singer  was,  all  in  a  flurry, 
having  her  chance  because  of  the  unexpected 
gap  in  the  programme,  "the  wonderful  Miss 
Murney,"  who  was  to  have  sung  weird,  wan- 
dering things  in  German,  and  soaring, 
ecstatic  things  in  Italian,  to  a  properly  bored 
company  who  gave  their  tolerant  patronage 
to  nothing  less  "correct,"  sang  an  old  Irish 
air  again  and  again  through  the  long  night 
in  a  sick  chamber  from  which  the  gray 
shadow  of  death  lifted  and  lifted  until,  with 

[297] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


the  coming  of  the  sun,  it  vanished  alto- 
gether. 

It  was  four  days  before  the  Doctor  would 
let  Jessica  leave;  and  by  then  Hughes  had 
known  of  her  presence  for  two.  He  could 
do  little  yet  but  lie  and  look  at  her,  but  he 
managed  to  say  before  she  went — 

"It  was  so  good  of  you  to  come — Mother 
would  like  it  so" — and  then — "You  sang  it, 
didn't  you?  I  seem  to  remember  that  you 
did." 

"I  have  sung  it  a  hundred  times,"  she 
whispered  back;  and  he  was  satisfied. 

She  went  into  London  the  day  before  her 
second  engagement  in  the  Park  Lane  dis- 
trict, and  Herr  Vogt  tried  her  voice  with 
great  anxiety.  She  had  been  for  a  week  in  the 
very  atmosphere  against  which  Herr  Wer- 
ner had  specifically  warned  him;  and  there 
was  a  new  look  on  her  face.  She  stood  out 
from  the  piano  and  sang  one  of  her  first 
selections  with  him — a  German  love  lyric; 
and  half  way  through  there  was  a  faltering, 
and  then  the  music  stopped.  But  it  was 
[298] 


ANOTHER  "VALEJ 


Jessica  who  turned  to  Herr  Vogt  for  an  ex- 
planation; for  it  was  he  who  had  stopped 
playing,  and  sat  looking  at  her  with  his 
great  bulging  eyes  a-swim  and  his  fingers 
working  nervously. 

"You  haf  it  learned,"  he  said  throatily. 
"You  know  what  lof  is." 

Jessica  looked  at  him  and  smiled.  "How 
did  you  know?"  she  asked. 

"You  told  me,"  he  said  simply;  and  then 
—"You  make  me  to  lof.  You  will  make  all 
the  vorld  to  lof — ven  you  like  that  sing." 

And  he  let  her  sing  love  songs  to  the 
"crush"  in  Park  Lane,  and  the  most  industri- 
ous function-goer  could  hardly  remember  to 
have  heard  the  general  conversation  so  seri- 
ously interrupted. 

Then  the  Murneys  went  back  to  the  coun- 
try, for  Mrs.  Hughes  had  written  to  ask 
them ;  Jessica  only  coming  up  for  the  day  to 
sing  to  the  Bohemian  gathering.  The  Bo- 
hemians thought  her  rather  absent-minded, 
but  felt  the  magic  of  her  singing ;  and  cabled 
a  third  instalment  of  praise  of  her  to  New 
[299] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


York.  When  Jessica  went  back  to  the 
country  she  took  Herr  Vogt  with  her;  and 
he  stayed  at  "The  Jolly  Hostler." 


[300] 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

t 
Love  and  Art 

As  the  days  went  by  Mr.  Hughes  grew 
stronger,  and  Jessica  gradually  withdrew 
from  the  character  of  singing  nurse.  With 
returning  vigor,  he  became  more  himself— 
more  reserved — more  jealous  of  permitting 
his  emotions  expression.  But  the  mask  had 
been  up  for  a  while,  and  Jessica  had  seen 
that  there  was  more  in  that  heart  than  she 
had  ever  dreamed.  When  she  glowed 
over  a  splendid  sunset  as  it  showed  right 
down  the  avenue  of  chestnuts,  and  Hughes 
only  said— "Yes;  it  is  worth  sitting  up  to 
see,"  she  knew  that  it  was  not  his  percep- 
tion that  was  at  fault;  it  was  only  that  he 
had  been  trained  in  a  racial  school  of  self- 
suppression. 

But,  for  all  that,  she  likewise  knew  that 
there  were  things  in  her  soul  that  were  not 
in  his — that  thoughts  filled  her  mental  hori- 
[301] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


zon  with  beauty  and  nobility  and  inspiration 
which  never  so  much  as  showed  above  the 
sky-line  of  his.  And  this  knowledge  gave 
her  disquietude;  for  now  they  both  knew 
also  that  each  loved  the  other  and  there  was 
no  thought  but  that  the  day  would  come 
when  he  would  ask  leave  to  put  a  ring  on 
her  finger.  Still  when  they  talked  together, 
first  as  he  lay  on  his  cot  on  a  side  gallery 
and  afterward  as  they  walked  in  the  shade  of 
the  chestnuts,  she  saw  that  this  difference  did 
not  make  for  dullness,  and  then — somewhat 
to  her  surprise,  it  must  be  confessed — that 
there  were  qualities  in  him  that  were  not  in 
her,  and  that  he  saw  some  things  at  first 
sight  which  he  had  to  teach  her  to  discern. 
They  were  not  alike;  this  she  had  known 

*/ 

all  along — but  she  felt  her  face  grow  hot 
as  the  memory  came  that  she  had  thought 
this  due  to  his  failure  to  leap  with  her  from 
the  lower  to  the  higher  mental  plane.  She 
was  far  better  than  she  had  been;  but  she 
was  no  longer  certain  that  the  old  Jessica  was 
an  exact  counterpart  of  Hughes.  She — the 
new  Jessica — saw  and  comprehended  things 
[302] 


LOVE  AND  ART 


in  him  to  which  the  old  Jessica  would  have 
been  hopelessly  blind.  And  she  was  con- 
stantly peering  into  his  mind,  trying  to  get  a 
full  view  of  principles  and  motives  there,  of 
which  he  only  showed — and  with  reluctance 
— a  fragment  at  a  time. 

One  day  the  curate  came  up  the  chestnut 
avenue  with  his  wide  hat  and  his  smooth  face 
and  his  oily  voice — and  his  impressive  way 
of  saying  nothing — and  said  that  they  were 
going  to  give  a  garden  party  at  the  Rectory 
and  that  he  would  like  Mr.  Theodore 
Hughes  to  promise  to  be  present,  for  that 
would  bring  a  lot  of  the  neighboring  young 
men  to  see  the  hero.  Hughes  flushed  to  the 
hair  line,  and  looked  as  uncomfortable  as  a 
well-bred  man  dare.  Jessica  knew  that  he 
would  rather  risk  the  jungle  again  than  face 
a  circle  of  perspiring  young  admirers  in  the 
character  of  a  hero ;  and  she  expected  to  hear 
a  confused  but  emphatic  refusal.  But  he 
accepted  and  promised  to  go ;  and  the  curate 
shook  hands  with  everybody  and  learned 
that  they  were  all  well,  and  took  an  anxious 
but  teachable  interest  in  the  perplexity  of 
[303] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


Mr.  Hughes,  Sen.,  as  to  whether  a  certain 
plant  with  a  purple  flower  should  be  put  at 
the  upper  or  lower  apex  of  a  crescent-shaped 
bed,  and  then  went  off  down  the  avenue  of 
chestnuts  with  a  walk  that  was  a  nice  blend 
of  the  cloister  with  the  proper  friskiness  of 
a  semi-athletic  curate  on  a  day  of  church 
sports. 

"It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  go,"  said  Jessica 
to  Hughes;  "but  I  was  surprised  that  you 
would." 

"Oh!" — and  he  made  a  deprecatory 
grimace — "I  shall  hate  it! — but  a  fellow 
should,  you  know." 

Jessica  wondered  why  Hughes  thought 
so.  She  thought  so  herself,  but  she  took  a 
delight  in  exploring  the  "run-ways"  of  his 
mind.  So  she  said — 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  I  wonder  why?" 

"Duty,"  said  Hughes,  shortly. 

"To  the  Church?" 

"Ye-es;  but  not  altogether.  One  should" 
— and  he  paused — "it  is  not  nice  to  say  it — 
but  one  should  set  something  of  an  example. 
[304] 


LOVE  AND  ART 


I — they  think  I  did    something    down    in 
Africa " 

"You  did,"  Jessica  could  not  help  breath- 
ing, though  she  feared  to  interrupt  him. 

"Well — they  think  so,  anyway — and  if 
I  go  to  the  Church  affair — to  show  off" 
and  he  threw  up  his  head  in  a  short,  embar- 
rassed laugh — "it  will  bring  some  young 
men  there — and  it'll,  perhaps,  give  them  the 
idea  of  doing  their  duty  when  the  pinch 
comes — they  will  see  that  it  is  recognised." 

"Doing  their  duty?" 

"Yes.  Climbing  a  stockade  or — shooting 
a  Boer,  or  something  of  that  kind." 

Duty!  That  was  the  first  word  in  Mr. 
Hughes's  religion — and  it  generally  meant 
doing  what  was  expected  of  an  English  gen- 
tleman. 

It  was  Herr  Vogt  who  brought  things  to 
a  climax — and  a  settled  basis.  He  naturally 
tired  of  living  at  "The  Jolly  Hostler,"  giv- 
ing Jessica  an  hour  a  day,  and  seeing  her 
hurry  uj>  to  London  to  sing  at  what  engage- 
ments he  got  for  her.  This  was  not  launch- 
ing her  upon  a  career  which  was  to  make 
[305] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


them  both  rich  and  famous.  So  he  thought 
out  and  proposed  a  programme.  Now  that 
their  visit  was  over — this  he  assumed — they 
would  go  back  to  London  and  close  the  sea- 
son with  a  blaze  of  glory;  then,  on  a  profit- 
sharing  basis,  he  would  go  with  them  to  New 
York  to  get  ready  for  the  opening  of  the 
winter  season  there — or  he  would  go  back  to 
Dresden,  and  leave  them  free  to  do  what 
they  liked. 

No,  they  both  said,  he  must  come  to  New 
York  with  them — he  must  share  in  whatever 
success  they  might  have.  Well,  then,  he 
asked,  could  they  come  to  London  to-mor- 
row? Mrs.  Murney  feared  that  "to-mor- 
row" would  be  rather  abrupt;  but  Monday? 
"Gut!"  Monday  would  do — these  English 
did  "nothing"  on  Sunday  and  began  doing  it 
on  Friday.  Jessica  wondered  in  her  heart 
what  Monday  might  see. 

Mrs.  Murney  told  of  the  decision  at  the 
head  of  the  avenue  of  chestnuts,  and  was 
full  of  polite  gratitude  for  their  "English 
hospitality."  She  knew  now  what  an  Eng- 
lish home  was. 

[306] 


Hughes  looked  swiftly  at  Jessica,  met 
her  eyes  in  startled  questioning  for  just  a 
moment — and  then  he  smiled.  What  he 
read  there  seemed  to  bring  him  reassurance 
and  content.  He  crossed  over  to  where  she 
was  and  said — 

"Come.  Let  us  walk  in  the  shade  of  the 
chestnuts." 

So  they  went  off  together,  his  step  still  a 
little  weak  and  his  arm  helpless  in  a  sling. 
Jessica  was  steadily  silent,  leaving  the  first 
word  to  him. 

"Can  you  manage  to  give  it  up?"  was 
what  he  said. 

"Must  I?"  she  asked  in  momentary  regret 
and  incipient  rebellion. 

"Oh,  no!  Not  altogether,"  he  hurried  to 
say.  "It  is  quite  the  thing  to  sing — a  little 
— in  society ;'  in  quite  an  unprofessional  way, 
you  know " 

Jessica  drew  a  deep  breath  and  lifted  her 
head. 

"And  then  there  are  Church  things  to 
be  sung  for,"  he  went  on  doubtfully; 
"and- 

[307] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


"But  that  is  not  art,"  burst  out  Jessica. 
"Singing  selections  at  a  parish  concert — 
singing  ballads  at  a  school  closing — "  And 
she  stopped. 

Hughes  was  silent,  for  this  was  the  Jes- 
sica he  did  not  know.  They  walked  on  for 
quite  a  minute,  the  flecked  sunshine  falling 
through  the  chestnuts,  dappling  their  fig- 
ures. There  came  a  little  increase  of  pale- 
ness to  Hughes's  face,  and  then  he  said — 

"I  could  not  have  you  a  professional 
singer." 

Jessica  looked  at  him,  rigid  and  intent  on 
his  thought.  It  seemed  so  school-girlish  to 
remind  him  that  he  had  not  yet  asked  her  to 
be  his  in  any  capacity.  So  she  only  said — 

"It  is  not  to  be  a  professional  that  I  want 
— it  is  to  be  an  artist — to  work  and  work 
at  my  music  until  I  can  put  the  best  in  me 
into  the  best  of  it  and  then  sing  it  to — to 
you  and — everyone." 

"I  shall  never  stop  you  from  that,"  he 
said  quickly.  "I  may  not  know  all  you 

sing,  but  when  you  come  to  live  here " 

[308] 


LOVE  AND  ART 


She  laughed  and  he  stopped.  Then  his 
eyes  twinkled  in  the  old  way. 

"Haven't  I  put  it  in  words  yet?  Well,  I 
did  once,  you  know;  and  I  took  it  for 
granted  then  that  you  would  not  come — 
perhaps  I  have  taken  it  for  granted  now 
that  you  will—  And  he  stopped  again, 
and  looked  at  her  with  eyes  from  which  an 
eager  question  was  not  altogether  absent. 
Jessica  thought  to  tease  him  with  a  doubtful 
smile,  but  it  melted  before  the  rising  of 
something  overwhelming  within  her,  and 
her  heart  looked  out  at  him  through  her  pas- 
sionate eyes. 

"My  darling!" — and  his  unhurt  arm  was 
about  her,  and  both  of  her's  about  his  neck — 
and  it  was  well  that  they  stood  where  a  chest- 
nut and  the  old  wall  cut  off  the  view  on  one 
side,  and  a  great  empty  field  promised  pri- 
vacy on  the  other. 

"We  will  be  together,"  she  whispered, 
"whether  for  art  or — or 

"Together!"  he  said.  "And  may  God 
keep  me  from  trying  to  clamp  you  down  to 
my  limitations!" 

[309] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him, 
her  eyes  a-swim  with  tenderness.  "Your 
limitations,"  she  cried  reproachfully;  and 
then — "We  are  not  alike,  dear,  in  every- 
thing"— repeating  an  old  thought — "but 
you  have  no  limitations — you  have  only 
some  unexplored  —  jungle"  —  and  she 
laughed  a  little  laugh  that  suggested  tears 
— "and  you  are  not  afraid  of  jungle.  But 
I" — and  her  face  grew  serious — "have  noth- 
ing of  your  depth." 

"Nonsense!" 

"No,  I  haven't,  dear.  But  you  will  teach 
me — character — that  on  which  things  rest 
— like  the  bases  of  the  mountains  at  Lu- 
cerne, you  know.  And  I — I  will  gather 
flowers  for  you  on  the  mountain  side,  as  I 
did  in  the  Grosser  Garten — "  And  there 
was  a  soft  laugh  in  which  they  both  joined 
— a  laugh  of  recollection. 

There  are  so  many  ways  in  which  the  rest 
of  the  story  might  be  told  that  the  pen  hesi- 
tates.    What  Herr  Vogt  said,  as  he  trotted 
[310] 


LOVE  AND  ART 


up  and  down  the  parlor  of  "The  Jolly 
Hostler"  when  he  learned  that  "the  wonder- 
ful Miss  Murney"  would  not  even  try  for  a 
career  after  all  he  had  sacrificed  for  it — and 
her — might  be  put  down  in  the  wreckage  of 
two  languages;  what  the  lady  from  Maine 
said  when  he  met  her  on  Fleet  Street  and 
blocked  the  traffic  with  his  gesticulating 
woe;  what  the  little  village  at  the  lower  end 
of  the  avenue  of  chestnuts  said  when  it  was 
known  that  "Teddy"  Hughes  was  to  marry 
an  American  singer,  and  what  it  said  when, 
a  year  later,  she  appeared  at  the  Rectory 
garden  party  and  sang  three  times  with  an 
unforced  willingness  and  a  voice  that  might 
have  been  coined  into  gold  in  London.  What 
musical  New  York  said  when  she  sang  at  a 
few  private  functions  there  before  the  wed- 
ding., would  be  interesting,  too,  and  gave  Mrs. 
Murney  many  moments  of  regret.  What 
M.  Bilot  said  when  Herr  Werner  called  at 
the  "pension"  on  the  quiet  street  in  the 
Quartier  Latin  with  the  news,  was  subver- 
sive of  all  proper  conceptions  of  matrimony 
[311] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


and  could  not  be  put  down  here  at  any  price ; 
but  what  Herr  Werner  himself  wrote  to 
Jessica  at  New  York,  sending  it  to  her  with 
a  wonderful  brooch  as  a  wedding  present, 
might  be  recorded. 

"My  dear  Miss  Murnejy,"  he  began. 
"That  you  have  given  up  your  art,  as  Herr 
Vogt  says,  I  do  not  believe.  Having  known 
for  so  long  what  it  is  to  live  for  the  best,  for 
the  most  uplifting,  the  most  beautiful,  you 
could  not  forget  it.  I  cannot  think  that  you 
have  chosen  best  in  selecting  England  as 
your  home;  but  I  do  not  imagine  for  a  mo- 
ment that  you  have  selected  it — you  have 
loved  an  Englishman  and  you  have  accepted 
the  consequences  of  that  handicap  on  your 
development.  It  is  not  for  me  to  advise  a 
defiance  of  love.  The  world  is  cumbered 
with  the  wreck  of  lives  which,  but  for  love, 
would  have  been  great. 

"But  this  is  not  a  letter  for  a  bridal.  Love 
can  also  uplift.  You  may  through  it  work 
a  miracle  and  unseal  the  eyes  of  your  Eng- 
lishman. I  was  in  England  but  lately  my- 
[312] 


LOVE  AND  ART 


self,  and  I  know  him — the  Englishman  as 
a  type — far  better  than  I  did.  He  is  not  a 
brute — he  is  not  even  a  savage.  But  he 
tries  to  teach  himself  brutality  lest  he  grow 
effeminate,  and  he  has  made  over  the  stoicism 
of  the  savage  into  a  stiff  mental  outer  gar- 
ment which  he  wears  constantly  for  fear 
some  one  will  find  out  that  there  are  streaks 
in  him  which  love  art  like  a  Parisian  and 
enjoy  sentiment  like  a  German.  You — with 
love  and  song — may  get  your  barbarian  to 
lay  aside  this  garment ;  and,  if  you  can  do  so, 
you  may  have  done  as  much  for  the  ultimate 
civilization  of  the  race  as  if  you  sang  for 
years  to  the  German  people  who  already 
dwell  in  the  kingdom. 

"Still,  at  all  events,  you  will  receive  my 
congratulations  on  having  discovered  love — 
for  nothing  short  of  love  would  link  you  to 
that  task.  And  love  is  the  sweetest  folly  in 
life.  Preach  as  I  will,  I  would  sell  my  soul 
to-morrow  for  love — and  I  have  a  soul  to  sell. 
But  the  cup  of  that  intoxication  has  been 
denied  me.  And  I  learned  this,  too,  in  Eng- 
[313] 


THE  PENSIONNAIRES 


land — to  suffer  and  be  silent.  There  is  this 
flower  I  will  give  your  husband — he  belongs 
to  a  race  which  has  kept  better  than  any  of 
us  the  tradition  of  how  to  do  great  deeds." 


THE  END. 


[314] 


See  the  next  page  in  regard  to  "Sweet  Vale 
of  Avoca." 


CHARMING  OLD  IRISH  SONG 

istoeet  Wale  of  9tooca 

Arranged  for  the  Voice  and  Piano 

PUBLISHED    ESPECIALLY    FOR    THE    READERS    OF 

MR.  ALBERT  R.   CARMAN'S 

NOVEL 


CLThis  beautiful  old  Irish  melody  has  been 
introduced  with  true  artistic  feeling  into  some 
of  the  most  delicate  scenes  of  this  unique  Book 

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Tales  '  '  for  grown  up  People 


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C."  We   believe    the   author  has   added    to   the 
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C.Miss  Jones  has  founded  her  novel  on  the  law 
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mystery  which  with  a  love  story  of  uncommon 
interest  makes  a  book  that  will  hold  the  reader's 
keenest  attention  to  the  end.  The  scenes  are  laid 
in  Nova  Scotia,  United  States,  England  and  the 
Continent. 

C.Miss  Alice  Jones  is  the  daughter  of  the  Honor- 
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Nova  Scotia. 

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a  Canadian  reputation  by  her  literary  work,  but  in 
this,  her  latest  effort,  she  has  at  one  bound  placed 
herself  hi  the  front  rank  of  Canadian  writers." 

Canadian  Magazine. 

C."  Canadian  fiction  has  been  enriched  by  the  pro- 
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to  do  as  good  work  as  she  has  put  into  this  tale, 
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d,A  fit  setting  to  what  are  unquestionably  the 
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C.A  modern  "  Sentimental  Journey."  Dainty, 
bright  and  picturesque.  Illustrated  by  3  Photo- 
gravures, I  volume. 

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Eale  of  a 


ONE    VOLUME 

By  JONATHAN   SWIFT 

TWO    PHOTOGRAVURES 

To  this,  "The  Greatest  Piece  of  Satire  ever  Written," 
we  have  added  in  this  edition  many  new  notes,  making  it 
the  most  valuable  as  well  as  the  most  attractive  in  existence. 

Comments  by  Literary  Folk 

Prof.  GEORGE  SAINTSBURY  says,  "The  'Tale  of  a 
Tub  '  is  one  of  the  very  greatest  books  of  the  world, 
one  of  those  in  which  a  great  drift  of  universal  thought 
receives  consummate  literary  form." 

Dr.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON  says  of  "A  Tale  of  a  Tub," 
"  There  is  in  it  such  vigor  of  mind,  such  a  swarm 
of  thoughts,  so  much  of  nature,  and  art,  and  life." 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  says,  "  This  celebrated  pro- 
duction ('A  Tale  of  a  Tub  '  )  is  founded  upon  a  simple 
and  obvious  allegory,  conducted  with  all  the  humour 
of  Rabelais,  and  without  his  extravagances." 

WILLIAM  THACKERAY  calls  him  "  The  greatest  wit 
of  all  times." 

VOLTAIRE  says,  "  There  are  in  Dean  Swift  many 
bits  of  which  there  are  no  examples  in  the  ancients. 
He  is  Rabelais  perfected." 

PUBLISHED    BY 

HERBERT   B.  TURNER  &  CO. 

170    SUMMER     STREET,     BOSTON 


A     000128377     9 


